


All That Slithers

by TheOtherBucket



Series: All That Slithers [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, Kidnapping, Married Couple, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Time Skip, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherBucket/pseuds/TheOtherBucket
Summary: The war is over, but Those Who Slither in the Dark remain a threat to a newly unified Fódlan. The plan had always been to carve out the rot corrupting their hard-won victory, but no one expected Thales to escalate first.Just weeks after “I do” House Vestra’s war in the shadows has begun. In the darkness that follows, Hubert and Byleth learn what it takes to forge an unbreakable bond.Or, Byleth struggles with her newfound mortality and Hubert learns a series of increasingly painful lessons about trust.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Series: All That Slithers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871254
Comments: 89
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

The palace was abuzz with activity. On any given day its ancient, resplendent halls were filled with visiting foreign dignitaries eager to size up Fódlan’s young new ruler, merchants feeling out the new social order, and nobles from the far-reaches of Fódlan conducting all manner of business. 

Today was busier than usual. Her Majesty’s birthday was at the end of the month, but Edelgard had opted to combine it with a new holiday to celebrate the founding of a new unified Fódlan. This meant her birthday would be more or less officially moved several weeks up, but public response to the announcement had been overwhelmingly positive. The war had taken its toll on everyone and any excuse for a celebration was desperately needed. Opening the palace gates to the masses for an evening would be the first step in cementing Edelgard’s status as an Emperor that would rule with the will of the people in mind. Word had been sent weeks ago, and festivities were set to begin at dusk.

Byleth had been kidnapped and locked in Manuela’s chambers for hours. She was of course more than capable of getting dressed for the ball herself, but Manuela was having none of it. 

Three empty bottles of wine sat on the table next to the mirror. “This is it! This is the one.” Manuela said, having difficulty modulating the volume of her voice.

“That’s the seventh time you’ve said that,” Byleth chided. They had been through dozens of dresses in the hours since Manuela had snatched Byleth out of the hallway like a petty thief; some dresses she was positive she’d seen more than once. She had to admit though, this one was resonating with her. It was simple, sleek, and elegant: entirely black save for a hint of blue at the neckline, which sloped into an alluring v-shape. The hemline stopped just above her ankle, with a cutout on the left side nearly all the way to her hip. 

“Why didn’t we do this in my quarters?,” Byleth asked as she spun to admire her profile in the narrow standing mirror, “I have more space.”

“Nonsense,” Manuela said, tilting her wine glass dangerously forward. “We can’t have Hubert seeing you before the ball!”

Byleth tried to keep a straight face but instead burst out laughing. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “We’ve been married a month, in case you forgot. Besides, we’ll hardly see each other. I’m sure he’ll be fending off offers to dance all night.”

Manuela snickered. “Then you make sure you get the first one.” Bending down, she examined a pearl necklace that had been lying on the floor with a gravitas only she was capable of after three bottles of wine. With an appreciative nod, she clasped it around Byleth’s neck. “There. You’re gorgeous.”

* * *

The palace’s grand ballroom was transformed into nothing less than the center of the continent for the night. The entire room was bathed in an ethereal golden glow: the high ceilings cast delicate, complex shadows from the rows of dimly lit chandeliers high overhead. The long oak tables, normally a fixture in the hall, were pushed to the sides to create an open space in the middle. Servants were bustling about with trays of food and the room was a sea of unfamiliar faces. 

Byleth tentatively made her way in - ignoring the whispers, the turned heads, and the sudden opening of a path before her as she focused on finding a hint of familiarity in an ocean of strangers. At the very center of the room, with Hubert and Ferdinand at her side, stood Edelgard in full Adrestian finery. Ferdinand nudged Hubert, who looked up to see his wife emerge from the throngs of people near the entryway.

Hubert closed the distance between himself and Byleth in a single, hurried step. “You look stunning,” he whispered. The way he was looking at her - as if with barely restrained hunger - sent a chill down her spine. He bowed, hand extended. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, my lady?”

Taking his hand, Byleth shot a questioning glance at Edelgard over Hubert’s shoulder. Edelgard nodded, a smile playing at the corner of her lips, a signal of her tacit approval for the dancing to begin. All at once the room began to move in unison with them as the music swelled.

Their gracefulness was entirely Hubert’s doing. He led masterfully, falling back on a lifetime of practice, and Byleth gratefully allowed herself to be swept along in his arms. Everywhere they went, the crowd parted and the whispers followed.

“Tell me,” Hubert asked, a playful note to his voice, “Does this make up for my absence from the ball at the Academy? I’ve been informed that you were quite disappointed when you found out I had chosen not to partake.”

Heat crept up her neck to her ears. The ball at the Officer’s Academy had been a dizzying affair. The entirety of the student body had lined up for a chance to dance with the strange new professor, except Hubert. She had been disappointed when he had been nowhere to be found that night, it was true. “It’s a start,” she said. She smiled up at him. She had him all to herself tonight, and that was more than enough.

The music shifted and Hubert disengaged abruptly with another formal bow. “I must return to Her Majesty, if you’ll excuse me.”

Before Byleth could shake off her confusion and insist he stay, another man had taken his place and the dance began anew, almost as if the man had been waiting for Hubert to make his exit. She tried not to let her disappointment show; she had gone to great lengths to prepare for the occasion and had been hoping to monopolize Hubert’s attention a bit more. 

Her new partner looked to be close in age and did not introduce himself - should she have recognized him? She glanced around the room disinterestedly. Most of those in attendance would be Adrestian nobility, Byleth surmised. The invitation had been open to all, but most commoners did not have the means of attending an evening such as this. 

A faint smile graced her lips as she recognized the figures of Caspar and Linhardt off to the side. They must have arrived earlier that day. Caspar appeared to be making a game out of pilfering food off of the butlers’ trays without getting caught, and Linhardt was simply content to watch the festivities with a half-finished drink in his hand. 

There was a droning noise in the background and she realized a moment later that her dance partner was speaking. “-And I would have certainly asked first if the Minister had not so rudely-”

Was he explaining why he hadn’t asked her to dance _first?_ Byleth sighed. “You think I should not desire to have the first dance be with my husband?”

That stopped him in his tracks and his face flushed a deep crimson. “H-husband? My apologies, I didn’t-” 

She had encountered those who couldn’t conceive of her marrying Hubert for any reason other than political gain, or even money, but simply being unaware of their union was new. It was almost comical considering how, thanks to Edelgard, their wedding had been an enormous public affair. 

Mercifully for him the music changed again and he was shuffled away to another partner. His replacement was, thankfully, a familiar face.

“Perfect timing,” Byleth said, accepting Sylvain’s hand for the next dance. 

* * *

Hubert lurked against the wall, arms crossed menacingly over his chest. He knew the expectation had been for him to spend the evening dancing with his new wife, yet he had escaped at the first opportunity. He had of course indulged Byleth with the first dance, as was his duty, but he saw no need to continue as she had nearly instantly established herself as the darling of the evening. He clenched his fists. She had caught him flat-footed when she had arrived late, looking like something out of a dream - no, a _fantasy_ \- and he knew the longer he was in her presence the harder it would be to maintain any sense of propriety. Besides, she was far more suited to such events than he was, and the crowd that had quickly formed around her clamoring for a chance for a dance was all the proof he needed that she would survive the evening without him.

Ferdinand crossed the room and shoved a wine glass at Hubert, the liquid sloshing dangerously around the rim. “Hubert,” he scolded, “You are not even trying to enjoy yourself. It is Edelgard’s birthday! It is your solemn duty as not just a noble, but a government official, to represent Her Majesty tonight. You are the Minister of the Interior, are you not? Your actions reflect directly upon her.”

Hubert snatched the glass from Ferdinand before he could spill it. He momentarily regretted allowing Dorothea to pursue a lead he had been working on in the east, as in her absence Ferdinand had attached himself to Hubert instead. 

He glowered over the rim of the glass. The man had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. He had left Her Majesty to fend for herself in a room full of vultures and weasels. Though he doubted she truly required his help, Ferdinand was correct in that his absence would likely be noted by those in attendance. And unfortunately, the assistance of some of those in attendance was also necessary to begin rebuilding Fódlan. 

He handed the glass back to Ferdinand without so much as a sip and stormed off in search of Her Majesty.

Ferdinand, left holding both glasses of wine, sighed and shook his head.

Edelgard was not difficult to find, despite her short stature, with the horned crown atop her head. There also seemed to be a sort of magical barrier around her that kept everyone at an arm’s length away, creating a ripple effect as she moved about the room. Hubert silently took his place by her side as if he’d never left. 

“Hubert,” Edelgard said without turning around. “What are you doing here?” There was an edge to her voice he found unsettling.

He frowned. Had he misunderstood what Ferdinand had said?

“Your Majesty-” He replayed his conversation with Ferdinand in his mind, searching for where he’d gone wrong.

She rounded on him, softening when she saw the look of near panic on his face. “Hubert,” she repeated, “Tonight is not about work. Please.”

He chanced a glance at Byleth, still the target of the affections of nearly every young noble in the room. She handled them with such grace; she deserved such an enchanted life far more than anything he could give her. The barest hint of disappointment must have shown on his face, as Edelgard placed a comforting hand on his arm. “You should go rescue your wife.”

There was a silence, a momentary lull as the melody shifted to something unfamiliar. The bell tower in the city tolled the hour. It was later than he thought. This was his last chance, his last good excuse to prove to Byleth that he-

An eerie silence descended on the room and Hubert’s blood turned to ice.

Striding through the room with singular purpose was Lord Volkhard Arundel. Hubert watched as he parted the crowd with a wave of his hand, hushed whispers following him. He approached Byleth and bowed, his hand extended to offer the last dance of the evening. 

He watched Byleth accept graciously, and Arundel signaled to the musicians to begin again. No one dared join; the room stood transfixed at the strange energy between the two on the dance floor. 

Hubert moved on pure instinct, mind racing. Stupid, _stupid_. He should have prepared for this. It was too obvious in hindsight. They were not safe, not even here, and especially not now. He slipped into the crowd to get closer, not wishing to be seen just yet. He trusted Byleth to handle this on her own, but he would be nearby in case… in case she needed him. 

“-good to see you’re settling in nicely to a life at court. My niece is quite fond of you-”

Hubert scowled. What was his purpose here tonight? Surely Arundel had not made such a dramatic entrance just to make small talk. He spotted Caspar nearby and grabbed the smaller man by the arm.

“Hey- what gives-” Caspar said, shutting up when he saw the look on Hubert’s face. 

“Find Her Majesty and keep her nearby. I don’t know what Arundel is doing here but I don’t like it,” he said, careful to keep his voice low as he released the reluctant Caspar. Another glance told him Ferdinand was on the move as well. Good, they needed eyes on the entire room. 

Byleth’s smile faltered for a moment, though he could not hear the exchange. Arundel’s grip on her waist tightened and he felt he might explode. Dark magic crackled between his fingers. Hubert clenched his fist to suppress the magic trying to bubble its way out. He could not afford to start a fight in the middle of the palace ballroom with half the Adrestian nobility in attendance.

“-hope we can reforge our alliance in building the new Empire. There is much work to be done-”

Byleth visibly relaxed when the music ended and Arundel bowed graciously, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a pleasant conversation between old friends. He turned to where Hubert stood rooted to the spot and bowed. “Marquis Vestra, thank you for allowing me the honor of a dance with your wife.” His smile reminded Hubert of a snake about to strike and it was all he could do to stiffly return the bow. “And Your Majesty,” he turned to his niece, who stood at the front of the room with her arms crossed, “happy birthday.”

As quickly and inexplicably as he’d arrived, he left. The silence continued for a long moment before conversation resumed, but no one returned to the dance floor the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot planned for these two, so hold on to your butts.


	2. Chapter 2

An inhuman roar echoed throughout the burning city. The creature’s dying wails reverberated up Hubert’s spine; he turned in time to see the monstrous form of the Immaculate One writhe and begin to crumple into a screeching heap. 

Metal scraped on cobblestone behind him. He spun, dodging the swing of a sword from a man that he had watched bleed out moments before. He dodged another blow, sending his opponent off-balance. Dark magic welled up inside him, and in the time it took for the enemy soldier to right himself wispy tendrils of smoke were gathering around the man’s feet. Hubert ran, not looking back as the spell swallowed the other man whole. He could hear the soldier’s screams: distorted, hollow against the sound of his pulse in his ears. He ran, following the sounds of the dying creature, the distance to the center of the city seemingly endless. He ran, ignoring the haunting pleas of the wounded and dying at his feet; their grotesque, bloody fingers grasping at the tattered fringes of his cloak.

He arrived an eternity later, gasping and out of breath as he frantically searched for a familiar shock of white or green hair. There was nothing but darkness and the taste of ash in the back of his throat before the world came into focus and he spotted them not far from Rhea’s still form, imposing even in death.

Something was wrong. Byleth was on the ground, limp, supported by Edelgard. Byleth’s armor lay beside her, shredded beyond recognition. Hubert approached, each step turning his feet to lead. 

Edelgard turned slowly, as if she sensed his presence. Her eyes were wild with grief, hair stained red with blood. She shook her head, opening and closing her mouth several times before he registered any sound. “I’m so sorry, Hubert.” 

The air rushed from his lungs and he fell to his knees. His mouth was moving but speech was impossible.

He blinked and Edelgard began to melt. Her eyes rolled back into her head, pupils disappearing into her suddenly too-pale face. Her lips became thin and elongated and she sneered at Hubert. He blinked again and the last trace of Edelgard was gone. Staring back was Thales, face warped into a twisted grin. The way this slithering creature held Byleth’s limp body was a cruel mockery of his grief. He tried to back away, but his legs felt cemented to the ground as if by magic. 

Hubert woke with a start. Drenched in a cold sweat, he sat up and ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. He frowned, shaking his head. Nightmares were not something he was accustomed to experiencing - not since Edelgard had been taken as a child - and the fact that he was having them again was unsettling. 

He glanced down, relieved to see Byleth still asleep beside him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and a glance out the window told him dawn was still a long way off.

He leaned down to brush aside Byleth’s hair and placed a gentle kiss at the nape of her neck, reassured by her warmth and light, even breathing. He had practically carried her back to their bedroom after the ball, his need for her drowning out all rational thought. Finally alone, they had collapsed into bed in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing as he kissed a trail of fire along every inch of her exposed skin. 

He traced the ridges of raised scar tissue on her hip, smiling into her neck when she shifted at his touch. The Immaculate One’s claws had cut deep; Linhardt and Manuela had been powerless to do much more than prevent infection from taking root. He had watched from the doorway while the team of healers worked to contain her fever, praying to gods he hadn’t believed in the day before.

He sighed into her hair before rolling onto his back. Sleep would not find him again tonight. Not wishing to wake Byleth just yet, Hubert slid from bed and retrieved the pieces of his uniform that had been flung haphazardly across the room. He disappeared into the sitting room of their palace quarters with the stealth of a specter. He lit a candle that he kept on the desk just outside the bedroom in anticipation of nights like this, but it had remained unused since their wedding night. 

The door leading to the bedroom closed with a soft click behind him.

* * *

The small room Byleth occupied was silent save for her labored breathing and the echoing clack-clack-clack of a wooden sword against a helpless dummy. Every moment she could spare was spent in the dingy little room, but there never seemed to be enough. To her relief, she had been able to regain most of her strength in the weeks after the battle in Fhirdiad, but the loss of the Sword of the Creator sent her back to the training dummies again and again. 

It was on her second tour of the Imperial Palace that she had discovered a small, open training space to the rear of the gardens. Edelgard had eventually been forced to repurpose an unused room near the servant’s wing to be used as a private training grounds after receiving too many complaints from nobles - who had never picked up a sword in their life - demanding to spar with the Ashen Demon. And Byleth hadn’t seen the point in going easy on any of them.

Clack. Clack. Thunk.

Hubert had been gone when she had woken up this morning. He’d been away for hours if the coolness of the sheets on his side of the bed was any indication. A cursory search of his desk had turned up no clues as to his location or what was troubling him, but she was certain it had something to do with Lord Arundel’s appearance at the ball; she’d caught glimpses of Hubert’s face in the crowd the night before, his expression murderous. She still wasn’t sure why Arundel had chosen last night to make an appearance. The slitherers had been quiet since Edelgard’s coronation. He’d mentioned something about reforging their alliance, could they be- 

Clack. _Crack_.

The sword snapped in half. Byleth grunted her frustration and tossed the worthless pile of splinters aside. It landed atop the remains of two others that also had not survived the morning. She was halfway to the weapon rack for a replacement when a familiar voice called out from the doorway.

“I think they’ve had enough. You look like you could use an actual challenge.” Sylvain emerged from the corridor, having already picked up a lance from the rack closest to the door.

Byleth smiled at the unexpected sight of her old friend and selected a steel blade this time. “Sylvain. You’re up early,” she said. He even looked like he’d gotten a little sleep. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until at least lunch after the night you had.”

“And miss this?” A rare, genuine smile graced his lips as he gestured to Byleth’s disheveled, sweaty form. “You’re kidding, right? Besides, you know I do my best work hungover.”

Byleth rolled her eyes, gesturing with her weapon and taking up a defensive stance in the middle of the room.

“Yeah, _let’s do this_ , professor,” he said, following her lead.

It wasn’t obvious who moved first. In an instant, Byleth’s sword crashed into the blade of Sylvain’s lance with the shriek of steel on steel. 

“Not bad,” he grinned. “Married life hasn’t softened you any, I see.” He jumped back to dodge her retort. Catching his footing, he eyed the small pile of broken swords in the corner of the room. “Or maybe it's the reason you’re still sharp? Hm? C’mon, professor, you can tell me if being the Marquise Vestra isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

She dodged a well-timed jab from his lance. She knew he was just trying to get a rise out of her, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an opening. “I’m not your professor anymore,” she said as she charged forward.

Their blades met in a frenzied screech. He wasn’t giving an inch; he’d finally perfected the defensive stance she’d taught him years ago. Her mind reached out, instinctively, feeling for the familiar pulsing power of her crest to give her an edge.

When nothing happened, she let out a frustrated yell before dropping to sweep his legs out from under him. 

He hit the ground with a muted thud. Sylvain opened his eyes to find himself staring down the wrong end of her blade.

“Yield?” She offered her hand while keeping her blade trained on his chest. The spark in her eyes dared him to try something. 

He accepted her hand and pulled himself off the floor, dusting himself off and returning the lance to the rack. “Still getting used to being crestless?” He frowned, thinking. “Gotta admit, that would be weird. It’d be like losing a part of yourself.”

Byleth merely grunted her response and began peeling her armor off. It had been getting easier, but she still found herself wanting to rely on it too often. Worse, she’d reached for it without even realizing. If she couldn’t learn to control the battlefield as a human again... 

“Thanks for the spar,” Sylvain said, breaking her out of her thoughts. He popped a scone in his mouth on his way out the door, “And breakfast!”

Byleth paused, a leather gauntlet hanging limply from her forearm. “Breakfast-?” She turned, but Sylvain had left. Then the smell hit her. She had been so focused that she’d failed to notice the servant wheeling in a cart piled high with fresh pastries, eggs, and meats. Byleth dragged over the only bench in the room - it was a hideous floral pattern and small enough to belong in a child’s bedroom - and removed just enough of the rest of her armor to sit comfortably.

There was a note tucked under one of the cups. There were place settings for two, she noted. Breaking the seal, which bore the Imperial eagle, she read:

_Byleth,_

_Please accept my apologies for this morning. If you wish to wait for me, I shall join you when I am able._

_\- H_

Hubert strode into the room at that moment, as if summoned. “You waited,” he said, relieved.

“Of course,” she said. It hadn’t occurred to her to be upset with him over waking alone. She had simply been concerned.

Byleth smiled and gestured to the other half of the bench she was occupying. It was barely big enough for two adults but Hubert joined her regardless, his left leg hanging comically over the edge. He set himself to work steeping her tea and pouring himself coffee. 

They ate in companionable silence, legs pressed together. Byleth couldn’t recall the pastries at Garreg Mach ever tasting this buttery and rich. She was likely to eat the whole tray with no one to stop her. She was about to shove a third into her mouth when Hubert broke the silence.

He was frowning into his coffee as if searching for the right words. “Byleth, last night, what-”

“He called me ‘Fell Star’ last night. Hubert,” she turned to him, putting the pastry back, losing interest. “How much do they know about what happened to me?” Solon had called her that the day she’d merged with Sothis, wielding the goddess’ power to claw her way out of another dimension. Hearing it from Arundel last night had her wondering if they actually knew the true effect of Rhea’s death on her.

He was thoughtful for a moment. He shook his head, “I have my theories, but what I am certain of is that they had not counted on you becoming such a valuable asset to the Empire even after the war.” 

Byleth opened her mouth to speak but Hubert held up his hand and continued, “I think they trust us even less now that it's clear how much you’ve woven your way into our lives. During the war, it was easy for them to believe that we were using you to our own ends. Now it seems our loyalty has been called into question. And they certainly weren’t expecting me to -”

A knock sounded from the hallway. “Minister Vestra?”

Hubert frowned and it was clear he had not been expecting a visitor. “We’ll speak of this another time,” he said as he made his way to the opposite side of the room. There was a hushed exchange and Hubert returned with a letter bearing the Imperial seal. He paced, his frown carving ridges into his brow as he read. The silence stretched on, the intensity of Hubert’s gaze boring a hole in the parchment. 

He turned to Byleth, the rolled parchment crumpling in his grip the only sign of the storm brewing beneath the surface. “Fetch Ferdinand and meet me in the council chambers immediately.” His voice was emotionless and his breathing controlled as he transformed into every inch the general he’d been during the war. Before she could protest, he continued, “Dorothea is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're rolling! 
> 
> Also, yes this story is tagged correctly.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hrym mountains loomed over the valley, casting deep shadows over the small town. Dorothea’s horse slowed without prompting and she wondered if it somehow sensed how close they were to the end. This sleepy town was the final leg of their journey; the culmination of weeks of groundwork. She had no one but herself to blame for finding herself flung to the far reaches of Fodlan, of course, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t ready for this whole ordeal to be over. She had requested this assignment almost immediately after the war when Hubie had let on that there was still Imperial business that needed to be settled, but her starry-eyed wanderlust had quickly been crushed under the weight of learning what she had been asked to do.

The streets were bustling with activity, but the sound of her horse’s hooves echoing off the cobblestones caused a silence to settle over those in the vicinity. Animated conversations were now turned heads and gazes that bored into her back as she passed. She had heard of this place; Ferdie had spoken of it on occasion. After his father’s death, he’d learned about the oppression of the people here at the hands of both the Empire and Duke Aegir himself. Something in him had changed with the acquisition of that knowledge - there had been a sadness to him, but his devotion to Edie’s cause and his desire to become a better man than his father burned brighter than ever before.

She smiled as the snow-capped peaks came into view. Since when had she started giving Ferdie credit for having any sort of complexity?

An old woman darted out of the street as she passed. She frowned - the street was wide and the horse had not come within two arm lengths. The people here were leerier of strangers than even Ferdie had explained to her. There was darkness here; she would not be comfortable staying any longer than she had to.

The inn was the largest building in the town center, but it would have been dwarfed by even the least impressive structures in Enbarr. Dorothea flagged down the inn’s stable boy, slipping him a handful of coins to put her horse away for the night. “I’ll be back for you in the morning,” she whispered, giving the horse an affectionate pat on the nose before he was led away. 

The door creaked, even with little force, and she stepped into a large dining area. The innkeeper - a portly, balding man of middle age - worked quietly behind a counter on the far side of the room. Dim light filtered in through drawn curtains. Perhaps it was the stale air, or the dust mites floating in the beams of sunlight, but the room had a sense of being suspended in time; it was the only place in her travels that had appeared still untouched by the war. An old couple occupied a table in the far corner, but the room was otherwise empty. She approached the bar and slid some coins onto the counter. 

“A room, please?” She said, keeping her voice low, “and a meal, if you can spare it.” The innkeeper wordlessly slipped the coins off the counter and walked off. 

She risked another glance around the room while she waited for her supper. They weren't here. Her instructions had been clear: the town at the foot of the mountains in three days’ time. It wasn’t impossible that she was the one that was early - being this deep into the shadowy mountainside made it difficult to tell exactly what time it was once the sun started to disappear between the peaks - but the idea that something might have held them up niggled at the back of her mind. The job had necessitated them separating after their last rendezvous at Garreg Mach the week before, and she was only able to ensure she hadn’t been followed.

A steaming bowl of rabbit stew and a bronze key appeared on the countertop. She pocketed the key. A table partly in the shadows sat empty in the far corner of the room, affording a view of the door without being immediately visible. Picking up her stew, she made her way to the shadowy corner of the room, pausing to look back at the innkeeper. “Is there a bathhouse?” 

Her face fell when he shook his head. She took a seat against the wall. Her last hot bath was a distant memory at this point, and she held onto the hope of an evening in the luxurious tub in her palace quarters after all of this.

The stew smelled better than it tasted. It was chewy in strange places, gamey even for rabbit and the most delicious thing she had ever had the pleasure of eating. Each bite was savored as if she might never eat again. By the time her bowl was nearly empty she had imagined herself as a student again; sharing such a plain meal with her classmates would have been unthinkable at the time, yet she now wished for nothing but Ferdie sitting across from her miming choking on what he would have considered an affront to food itself. 

The door opened and three men pushed their way into the room, inexplicably expanding to fill the entire space in front of the counter as they bidded for the innkeeper’s attention.

“Hey, ‘keep, gonna need three rooms and whatever you’ve got for food,” the one in the middle said. Dorothea met his gaze from across the room briefly, her head bobbing almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment. Tristan was young, his wavy brown hair and boyish face making him look even younger, but Hubie had vouched for his expertise and discretion. He had managed to live up to such high praise thus far, even if he was late. He’d become something like the de facto leader of the other two in the last weeks, despite them being nearly double his age. 

Shouldering her pack, Dorothea stood to take her leave. Ordinarily, she would have confirmed details with the men first, but she hadn’t been able to shake her sense of uneasiness since she’d arrived. Best not to be speaking of Imperial secrets out in the open tonight. They would have time to go over any last-minute issues once they’d set off in the morning. Even if the evidence led correctly, it would take some time to find what they were looking for. 

Key in hand, she located the stairs leading to the guest rooms. As she ascended she couldn’t shake the feeling of the elderly couple in the corner watching her and she took the last few steps two at a time.

*  *  *

The grey light of dawn crept into the room, casting a hazy glow on the stack of papers Dorothea had been hunched over for the last several hours. Sleep had claimed her quickly after she’d devoured the stew but the relief of rest had been short-lived. Her mind was disquieted and before she knew it she was back to flipping through the meager stack of evidence that she’d dared remove from the cache at Garreg Mach. 

In front of her were hastily scribbled copies of only the most important information. Crudely drawn maps, handwritten notes, a name or two. Just enough to lead her to the end of the world and give her the nudge she needed to step over the edge. 

Hubie proposing that Thales and his ilk could be traced to their lair because of their magical weapons - “javelins of light” - seemed something too dramatic to have originated in reality. It was almost operatic in its absurdity. He’d also discovered that the javelins of light held no power over the halls of the monastery: it had been one of the first things he had mentioned when she had agreed to work with him. She hadn’t asked why. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, or perhaps it had all been too much to take in at once. The idea had been to use the monastery’s defenses to their advantage and prevent wholesale destruction of any progress they had made should they be discovered. 

Whenever a new city gave up its secrets, she vanished, only to reappear at the gates of Garreg Mach again and again, slowly amassing enough evidence to bring down those who slithered in the dark. If she had known at the time what she was signing up for, she sighed, perhaps she wouldn’t be sleep-deprived, desperately in need of a bath and about to knock on the front door of those responsible for more destruction than she could comprehend. 

She swept the documents into her bag and tucked it into her jacket. The sounds of the kitchen preparing for the day drifted into her room. Her stomach growled its nostalgia for the bustling dining hall at Garreg Mach, or even the overly indulgent meals at Enbarr, though she’d had less opportunity to call the palace home. But she supposed anywhere would have felt homey in comparison to the nights on the road, often with only her horse as companionship. 

Saddled up, her horse was waiting for her outside. He’d been brushed and, judging by the lack of irritated pacing, fed. He looked better than she did at this point. She glanced around and saw her men already on horseback just up the road, waiting. Not so much as a floorboard had creaked to give away their presence this morning. She rolled her eyes and hopped into the saddle, the horse shifting its weight as she settled in.

“Ready, boy?” She smiled, a faraway, sad look in her eyes as she ran a gentle hand through the horse’s mane. She could almost convince herself that there was a twinkle in his eye just then. A silent acknowledgment of how far the two of them had come. “This is it. Almost done.”

“Look for anything out of the ordinary. It’ll be easy to miss. They haven’t maintained a presence here for centuries without being smart about it,” Tristan said after she caught up to the group at a trot. The plan was simple: if Hubie’s theory about the javelins of light was correct, this town was where those who slither in the dark had been hiding. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for, but she hoped she’d know when she saw it. 

They fell into a practiced silence, the men occasionally glancing at her when they thought she wasn’t looking. She wished they wouldn’t, her hair was a disaster. She had been forced to pull her long, thick hair back into a crude braid to keep from further damaging it with repeated exposure to the sun and wind.

With the town disappearing behind them, Dorothea consulted her map again, ironing out the wrinkles against the saddle horn as she glanced between the parchment and the looming mountain range. It should be here, but the rock face looming in front of them still looked to be every inch an ordinary mountainside. 

“Maybe it’s further in,” one of the older men, Reinald, murmured. It was more than the man had said the last handful of times they had met. He kept his dark hair closely cropped, to Dorothea’s constant surprise, as his hairline revealed red and angry flesh - remnants of what was once likely a nasty wound. Shifting his grip on the reins, his horse began ascending the steep mountain road. 

She followed his lead, not having a better idea, and signaled for the others to do the same. There was obviously nothing here. 

The horses handled the climb with ease, but as they gained elevation the path narrowed treacherously, forcing them to ride single file with Dorothea filtering to the rear. She watched the sky, thankful that the day was shaping up to be clear. The last thing they needed was a snowstorm descending on them before they could return. 

Murmurings from the men in front of her floated on the breeze as they rode.

Tristan muttered something incomprehensible and the older blond man, Selles, shook his head. “Ask me, that Lord Vestra’s not quite right since the war. Chasing stories is what we’re doing.”

The murmuring ceased when Dorothea audibly cleared her throat from behind them. Selles straightened in his saddle. He had made it clear he was only doing this because Reinald was, driven by neither duty nor country. This had bothered Dorothea, but Hubie had dismissed her concerns outright and insisted the man could be trusted completely. It hadn’t taken much to figure out that Hubie had dug up enough compromising information on Selles to ensure his total cooperation.

Her gaze on their backs must have disquieted them, as no one spoke again for some time and to her eternal frustration, the rocks continued to just be rocks. 

Her horse slipped at one point, its back leg scrabbling for purchase in the loose gravel of the cliffside. She couldn’t help but glance down, her stomach flipping into her throat at the sight of how far they had actually climbed. The river rushing hundreds of feet below was barely audible from their elevation. She dismounted, getting her thumping heart back under control, and pulled out the map again. She moved to sit in the shade against a large rock, back pressed firmly against the mountainside. They had been riding for hours and the sun was nearly overhead. They should have seen  _ something _ by now. Her heart sank into her stomach. If it wasn’t here…

“Ma’am.” Tristan pulled up and dismounted beside her. He bowed. “Permission to have the others scout ahead while we get our bearings. We should be close if we haven’t missed it already.”

She would never get used to being called ma’am. At least during the war it had been “general” or just “Dorothea”. She nodded dismissively, eyes still glued to the hand-drawn map. 

He turned to wave the others on with a whistle. “Go on ahead! See what you can find, we’ll catch up when we’re finished here.” There was a pause, but eventually there was the snap of reins and the two older men disappeared wordlessly around the bend. Tristan held out his hand, gesturing for Dorothea to give him the map. 

She obliged with a sigh. “If we missed it,” she said, “they’ve done a phenomenal job of concealing it. There’s nothing but solid rock for miles.” 

He frowned, squinting as he held the map up against the sunlight, the parchment turning translucent but revealing no secrets. “Did Lord Vestra mention anything about-”

There was a shout from up the hill. Tristan jammed the map into his tunic and they turned as a fireball blasted away a piece of the mountain overhead, the force of the blast sending debris flying between them. Another fireball - Dorothea yanked Tristan to the ground as the flames singed their backs. Using the smoke and debris as a cover for the second attack-

“Ambush!” Someone was screaming. Her men were screaming. There was no time to react. She scrambled to her feet and dove for her horse as Selles and Reinald thundered past, horses foaming at the mouth under the strain. 

Having righted himself, Tristan shouted inaudible commands before kicking his mare into a sprint. They ran side by side, hooves slipping on the loose gravel of the cliffside as they pushed their horses to the limit. 

Heart beating in time with the rhythm of hoofbeats, black teased the edges of Dorothea’s vision. They had to keep running, had to get back -- the mountainside exploded. Her horse shrieked, collapsing in a tangle of legs. She didn’t have time to brace herself before she hit the ground, flailing for a handhold as she rolled off the ledge. There was a moment of weightlessness before she registered the cliff receding into the background. 

* * *

The horse had nearly given out by the time he’d stopped running. Tristan flew past the inn and straight out of town before he’d stopped to glance back. He lay in a field of tall grass, hands over his face. He’d been the only survivor, somehow slipping through before the force of the explosion ripped the team to pieces. The general was dead - he’d heard her screams as she plummeted off the ledge. The other two must have fallen as well, he realized in a panic. Running had been his best option, but the only thought in his mind as he mounted his horse again was the fact that Lord Vestra would flay him alive for the loss of General Arnault. A sob forced its way out of his throat and he gripped the reins until his knuckles turned white.

It was a long way to Enbarr. He needed to find a messenger. 


	4. Chapter 4

Perched at the edge of the plush footstool in the royal quarters, Edelgard leaned toward the mirror to get a better look at her face, earning a reprimand from one of the women affixing the horned crown to her painstakingly coiffed hair. Dark circles rimmed her eyes; she had slept, but not well. She had maintained her composure during Arundel’s little intrusion last night, but her mind had collected the debt with disturbed sleep. 

She had dreamt the final moments of the ball in some sort of delirious, endless loop. Byleth, arresting in her new dress, the high cut teasing glimpses of the dagger strapped to her thigh. Arundel, his hair shorter and white, pupils disappearing into his skull. Skirting the crowd, she had strained to decipher something, anything that passed between her uncle and her friend.

His fixation on Byleth the night before was concerning, yet Edelgard had not been able to ascertain his motive. Had his visit truly been out of goodwill such an overt display would not have been necessary. No, something more was at play. 

A knock on the door jolted Edelgard out of her reverie. A second sharp rap followed the first and the tension melted out of her shoulders as Hubert’s voice floated faintly through the solid door. “Lady Edelgard?”

The chambermaid gave her hair a final twist, ensuring it was firmly secured. Even with the remnants of a mostly sleepless night written on her face, she cut an imposing figure in the mirror: white hair curled around the intricate filigree of her crown standing in stark contrast to the deep crimson of her robes.

Another knock signaled Hubert’s impatience. Since his wedding, he had largely broken himself of accosting her at the crack of dawn with state business, but knowing him he had been awake and busying himself with all manner of unimportant things for hours this morning. He never had been able to sit still, let alone sleep, when something was bothering him.

Hubert stood in the hall, posture failing to disguise his unrest, a crumpled scroll held behind his back. “Lady Edelgard, a most urgent matter requires your attention.”

Edelgard dismissed the women with a wave. If Hubert needed something at this hour, it was for her ears only. 

After her chambermaids departed she opened the door further as an invitation to continue the discussion inside.

“Actually, Your Majesty, if you would accompany me to the council room? Byleth and Ferdinand will be joining us shortly.”

She frowned. Hubert was often content to discuss sensitive affairs in the privacy of Edelgard’s quarters, and his insistence on Byleth and Ferdinand being present was unusual to the point of unheard of.

“It concerns… them,” he continued, obviously having understood the unspoken question in her silence. His green eyes cast about the hallway, ever wary of extra sets of ears. 

Alarm bells sounded in her head. “Lead the way.” Too many little pieces were beginning to click into place. She kept pace with Hubert as they walked, mind churning through endless possibilities.

Hubert seemed relieved when they were the first to arrive. Edelgard pushed the doors closed and leaned against the edge of the table that served as the enormous centerpiece to the room. 

Hubert handed her the scroll, face impassive. “A messenger arrived from Hrym this morning.”

“Hrym?” She snatched the missive from his grasp. 

She was a jumble of thoughts as she read. Hubert had consulted her periodically regarding those who slither in the dark, and Dorothea’s work had produced compelling evidence of suspicious activity in the Hrym region. The mounting evidence lent credence to Hubert’s theory on tracing the origins of the javelins of light, but Edelgard had insisted on not changing the scope of the mission until they had enough to make more than an educated guess. Fódlan was too fragile to immediately invite another war that they were not prepared to win.

Setting the letter aside, she worked to get her breathing under control. “Hubert… why was Dorothea in Hrym?”

One eye characteristically hidden behind a lock of dark hair, his expression remained impassive as if he had not spent the last two weeks lying to her face. Then she realized she could not recall the last time they had met regarding his progress. With preparations for the ball, it had likely been at least two weeks, if not more.

“Answer me, Hubert,” she said when he did not respond. Ire bubbled to the surface; she had worked to coax Hubert into being more forthcoming with details concerning his work, and she had even begun to believe they had made progress. Things were being divulged in his reports now that even a year ago would have been kept from her under the guise of plausible deniability. 

He avoided her gaze, his mouth set in a firm line. “With all due respect, the longer we waited the greater the risk was to everyone. Dorothea’s fate is unfortunate, do not misunderstand me, but I believe her death simply proves my point that we had no time to waste-”

“It wasn’t your decision to make!” She cut him off, shouts echoing through the cavernous room. Hubert again didn’t respond, instead crossing his arms and moving to stare out the window. Edelgard had been clinging to the hope that she would be granted enough time to guide Fódlan to a more stable place before a stray spark ignited the fires of conflict once more. None of her former classmates had been lost to the war, a testament to both their luck and Byleth’s leadership, and it seems she had been asking too much for their luck to hold. 

“If you felt we had enough evidence, you should have recalled her. We could have solidified our position and maintained the element of surprise, but now…” She gestured angrily to the letter lying half crumpled on the table, a physical manifestation of their sudden disadvantage.

“Forgive me Your Majesty, but do you honestly believe that they would have extended us such a courtesy? They have clearly been aware of our movements for some time and I think you know that Thales did not make such a long journey simply to wish you happy birthday in person.”

Wincing at Hubert’s use of her uncle’s true name Edelgard opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a syllable the heavy wooden doors behind her flew open. 

* * *

Hubert turned as Ferdinand burst into the room, with Byleth close behind and looking apologetic. He’d expected that the news of Dorothea’s death would be received poorly by the Prime Minister - Byleth had mentioned in passing that Ferdinand had wrestled with the idea of asking for Dorothea’s hand before she departed - but he had _not_ expected the sheer rage emanating from the man from across the room. Had Ferdinand any magical ability, he might have set Hubert alight with his gaze alone. 

“Hubert!” Ferdinand approached the window where Hubert had perched himself on the ledge. “I want to hear it from you.” They were eye level with each other until Hubert stood, looming over Ferdinand. 

“What you’ve heard is true. Dorothea is…” He searched, but unable to find a softer word, said, “Dorothea is dead.”

Ferdinand lunged for him, seizing the lapels of his uniform and pulling him off balance. “How could you have let this happen? It was by _your orders-!_ ” He choked on a sob as his knuckles turned white against the inky black of Hubert’s coat. 

A tense pause lingered between them before Hubert, with great trepidation, placed a hand on Ferdinand’s arm by way of apology. 

“Ferdinand.” Hubert swallowed hard. He was no better at condolences now than when Byleth’s father had been killed. “I am truly sorry, but Dorothea was aware of any potential danger-”

With a growl, Ferdinand shoved Hubert against the wall with enough force to nearly knock the breath from his lungs. Hubert’s gloved hand began to glow an incandescent purple, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Ferdinand!” Edelgard slammed her hands onto the tabletop, a loud crack reverberating throughout the room. “That’s enough.” 

Releasing Hubert, Ferdinand stumbled back as if remembering himself. 

Hubert straightened his jacket and suppressed the unspent magic pooling in his fingertips, the hazy purple glow dissipating.

Ferdinand sunk into one of the ornately carved chairs near the table, the fight suddenly gone out of him. Byleth moved to offer a comforting hand on his shoulder.

There was a tightness in Hubert’s chest at Byleth’s display of empathy for their friend. He had never excelled at handling the emotions of others. During their academy years Byleth had adeptly navigated the emotional needs of all those in her charge, and he had been no exception - despite his insistence to the contrary at the time. During her absence the task of managing morale had largely fallen to him, and though he was not totally incompetent, his ability to comfort and relate to others left much to be desired.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Hubert interpreted the silence that had descended on them as his cue to continue. “Ferdinand,” he chanced another look at the Prime Minister, whose hand was covering his tear-stained face, “I believe Dorothea was killed for something she found. Or, nearly found.” 

Byleth’s eyes widened. Edelgard crossed her arms and waited for him to continue. 

“The letter placed her in the Hrym region to the northeast. I cannot say for certain, but it seems likely she may have discovered the location of those who slither in the dark.”

Byleth watched him with rapt interest, her grip on Ferdinand’s shoulder as firm as her face was grim. 

“The next step is Garreg Mach.”

“But why?” Byleth asked, her blue eyes finding his. “That’s days away from Hrym, and it’s been abandoned for months now.”

He shook his head and broke eye contact with Byleth. “I instructed Dorothea to cache evidence on the monastery grounds. Considering what awaited her in Hrym, it is safe to assume they had been aware of her movements for some time. If we want even a sliver of hope of finishing what she started-”

“No.” Ferdinand, surfacing from his catatonic state, stood and brushed Byleth’s hand from his shoulder. His fingers absently traced the delicate wood grain of the table. “I am going to Hrym.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hubert spat. “Unless you’re that keen to die yourself.”

Ferdinand snarled and swung at Hubert. Before he could connect Byleth’s hand shot out and grabbed his upper arm; he rounded on her, eyes alight with rage. It had been lightning fast. Byleth held firm, eyes kind, and he eventually deflated under the weight of her sympathetic gaze.

“Hubert has a point, Ferdinand. There’s nothing but death in Hrym without the information at Garreg Mach.” She released Ferdinand’s arm. “It seems that’s where we need to go first, because what good are we to Dorothea’s memory if we’re dead?”

 _We._ The tightness in Hubert’s chest returned. In a different life he would have welcomed her aid. He had, in fact, laid almost this exact scenario at her feet shortly before the end of the war. Before he’d realized how deep the true extent of his feelings ran. Before she had inexplicably agreed to be his wife. Before she was mortal.

“The smaller the party, the better. We don’t want to attract unnecessary attention,” he said, giving Edelgard a lingering glance across the table. “In fact, it would be best if I went alone.”

“Like hell you will!” Byleth and Ferdinand shouted at the same time, only quieting at a gesture from Edelgard. 

“Hubert, they’re correct. I won’t risk you going alone. Since I don’t imagine either Ferdinand or Byleth will sit here quietly in the meantime, they shall accompany you. And while I anticipate no need for combat, considering who the enemy is” - Edelgard cast an apologetic glance at Byleth - “you may require someone with a relic.” 

She paused, and when no one spoke, added, “I will send for Sylvain. I believe he is still in the city. Be prepared to leave by dawn.”

* * *

Dusk had settled over Enbarr by the time Hubert found Byleth that evening. He had caught glimpses of her throughout the day, keeping Ferdinand busy with preparations for their trip after Edelgard had relieved him of his duties, but he had gone searching when she hadn’t returned to their quarters after dinner. When the sparring room had been dark and empty, his feet had carried him outside.

The sun had recently set behind the palace walls, leaving the gardens draped in the ethereal glow of twilight. Byleth’s back was to him, green hair falling in her face as she knelt over a flower bed along the far wall. The soft grass muted his footfalls as he approached. 

He took a knee beside her, ignoring the chill of the mud soaking through the fabric of his uniform. 

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he said. Noticing the freshly picked lilies in her hands, he added, “And those are for Dorothea.”

Her response was a sad smile. 

Byleth had taken almost sole responsibility for the cultivation of the gardens at Garreg Mach, and she had become well known for creative floral arrangements appearing at doorsteps on birthdays and holidays. Aside from their occasional usefulness in poisonmaking, the point of flowers had been largely lost on Hubert. Until he had returned one evening - shortly after her agonizing five-year absence - to a vase on his doorstep: a simple display of red daisies and white chrysanthemum atop a gift-wrapped book from a local merchant. He had set them aside and had nearly forgotten about them until several days later when Linhardt had made a passing comment one night, having come with a question and catching a glimpse into his quarters. Hubert had nearly pinned Linhardt to the wall for an explanation, only to spend the remainder of the night in the library devouring the language of flowers. His mouth had gone dry when his fingers ran over the faded text in the dim candlelight: _beauty unknown to the possessor_ and _loyal love_.

Leaving her side for a moment, he sought out a bed containing some much larger plants on the other side. The greenhouse at Garreg Mach, impressive though it may have been, could not hope to rival the lush beauty of the gardens at the Imperial palace. Professionally tended and housing varietals from around the world, it was a draw for both locals and visitors alike. 

Hubert paused to consider a row of rose bushes, a gloved finger tracing the outlines of delicate petals. Flowers were still more Byleth’s style of communication, but - he lingered on a hearty yellow rose, beige in the fading daylight - he could try. He vaguely recalled the yellow rose symbolizing friendship; perhaps Ferdinand would accept this in lieu of the heartfelt condolences that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

Returning to Byleth, he handed her the freshly picked flowers, mindful of the thorns on her bare skin.

“Ferdinand will love them,” she said, immediately divining his intent. She picked herself up out of the flowerbed. There was a basket on the ground by her feet, and she placed the roses together with the lilies, symbols of remembrance and friendship intertwined. 

“What will you do with the lilies?” 

“I’m going to give her a proper memorial.” 

“She will have a military funeral with full honors,” he said. It had tumbled out of his mouth even though he knew Byleth had gone out of her way to honor the dead during the war. A bouquet of lilies would occasionally stand watch outside the dormitory when a former student had been unfortunate enough to meet her on the battlefield. Oftentimes she had been forced to make do with a temporary marker of stones on fresh dirt, but she had marked every single one.

She smiled despite his stupidity. “I know. This one’s for us.” 

“Well then. In that case” -he twined his fingers with hers- “I have something to show you.”

Hubert guided her to the main gates, which had been closed to the public for hours. The guards opened them without question at their approach and they continued down the main road until the city lights were visible in the distance.

“This way,” he said, reminding himself of an overeager child as he led her off the main road to a grassy bluff overlooking the bay.

A tree had made its home on the cliffside, gnarled branches reaching for the city teeming with life beyond the water. Byleth was drawn to it instantly, letting go of his hand to get a better look and immediately setting to work braiding the lilies into the gaps in the branches until he could no longer tell that they had ever been separate.

He joined her at the base of the tree and gestured to a light shining a little brighter than most on the horizon.

“She’ll be able to see the opera house from here.” 

Silence washed over them, and he found himself content to watch the ocean breeze catch her hair, no longer the mint-green it had been when she had been under the influence of the goddess. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear when he was suddenly struck with the image of her lying bloody and broken in Edelgard’s arms. 

He withdrew his hand as if he’d been bitten.

“Are you alright?” Her eyes were soft, the corners of her mouth tinged with concern.

“...No.” No sense denying the weight in his chest any longer. “I suppose it’s naive of me to think I can convince you to stay.”

Byleth paused for a long moment before replying, “Hubert, you told me once that this is House Vestra’s war.” She cupped his face gently, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You’re not the only member of House Vestra anymore. This is my fight now too, and I won’t let you kill yourself over some misguided sense of duty.”

Hubert instinctively leaned into her touch. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to listen, to trust, but every time he closed his eyes he only saw what would inevitably come to pass should he be wrong.

A chuckle escaped his throat. It was dark even to his own ears. “I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?”

“Not in the least.” 

Her lips met his - tentatively at first, as if trying to tease the breath out of him - until he pulled her into a crushing embrace, unable to bear the thought of what might happen if he let go.

* * *

Smoke lingered in the air - its acrid smell forcing its way down her throat - and ice-cold water lapped at her feet. Dorothea coughed, cradling her head. Electric zaps of pain pulsed through her and her hand came away sticky with blood.

Looking up, she could just make out the narrow pass above. The mountainside still smoldered from the aftermath of the fireball. 

The only sounds were the rhythmic rushing of the river and a bird chirping in a nearby tree. There was no sign of her horse or anyone else for that matter. What had happened? She recalled the blast that had erupted out of the mountainside, her horse buckling, and then… she had fallen. Fragments of something flashed in her mind: a muttered incantation, a gust of wind. She must have had enough of her wits about her to choke out a spell to cushion her fall.

Trying to stand elicited a yelp of pain and her hands flew to her side. She stumbled forward, catching herself on a boulder as she heaved. Blackness flooded her vision. Each gasping breath was like a lance in her side and she was forced to lie down again, the afternoon sun blindingly bright in her eyes as she got her breathing under control.

Her ribs were broken, likely shattered if the level of pain was any indication. It was hard to be thankful for this kind of pain, but she supposed her spell had done its job in preventing a cracked skull or every bone in her body shattering on impact with the rushing water. She shuddered at the thought as another wave of nausea overtook her. 

She really shouldn’t be going anywhere until she was strong enough to cast a proper healing spell, but she pulled herself to her feet again anyway, letting the waves of agony wash over her. Each step was glacial and tentative, having to stop every few feet to let her vision return to normal through the blinding pain. She held her hand to her side, feeling the tingling warmth of magic dissipating between her labored footfalls. 

At this rate, she wouldn’t make it far before dark, but her men were gone and Thales or one of his goons hadn’t yet come for her. They didn’t seem stupid enough to assume she was dead without a body, which only meant one thing. 

She had to get to Garreg Mach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hubert, you silly man.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE NOTE THE NEW TAGS.** Tags will be updated fairly frequently from this point on, as things have officially Gotten Serious.

Horses laden with supplies had awaited them at the main gates while dawn had been nothing more than a glimmer on the horizon. Edelgard had been the only soul in the courtyard that morning, and she saw them off with a smile tinged with sadness and a hint of worry. A grimness hung in the air as they’d saddled up, few words exchanged in the pre-dawn silence. That silence had persisted throughout the day, with an iciness forming between Ferdinand and Hubert that put everyone on edge. 

They’d made camp in a clearing at the edge of the forest just before dusk. The monastery remained several hours to the north, but no one had been keen on riding through the mountains at night. It was treacherous at best - should the moonlight fail them - and a trap at worst. They had all agreed that a small campfire was a necessary risk. Sylvain and Ferdinand had hauled over some half-rotted logs to use as benches and set to gathering firewood while Hubert followed Byleth to the nearby creek for fish.

Exhaustion had worn away most of Ferdinand’s stubbornness and he devoured the fish as fast as Byleth could throw them on the fire.

“Save some for the rest of us, man,” Sylvain complained, snatching a stick with two smoldering fish out of the fire before Ferdinand could claim it.

There was plenty of fish - Byleth had emptied both hers and Hubert’s saddlebags and filled them to the brim with the slimy, wriggling creatures. Hubert’s eye had twitched when he’d realized what she was planning, but as he hadn’t offered a better alternative she continued dumping the bags’ contents onto their bedrolls despite his protests. 

When he sat in contented silence with a pile of fish bones at his feet she knew she’d won.

Byleth nudged Hubert in the foot with the toe of her boot, inclining her head toward where Ferdinand sat picking the last bits of meat off a fish carcass. This was likely the best opportunity he would get. 

Hubert shot her a withering look. 

Fine. He didn’t have to talk, but neither was she obligated to endure this charade. The saddlebags lay to the side of the fire, emanating a faintly rancid odor. He would be reminding her of the defiled bags on her deathbed if she forgot and allowed the horses to reek of fish the rest of the journey, so she made a show of gathering the thick material off the ground and headed into the forest.

The sun had fully set, and the moonlight provided little illumination through the thick canopy of trees. She knew she was close only when the trickle of water grew louder than the sounds of camp and the ground beneath her feet turned into soft mud, releasing her boots with a wet squelching sound. 

The two of them would need time, she thought as she scrubbed the bag with a rock plucked out of the creekbed. Not that Hubert was known for his expressiveness, but he had been cagier than usual the last couple of days. And of course his _terrific_ non-apology in the council room had likely only further convinced Ferdinand that he only saw people for their potential usefulness-

She froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. 

Someone clearing their throat behind her dissolved the tension instantly. Ferdinand certainly had a keen sense of timing.

“Professor, please tell me something.” The mud along the creek bed announced his hesitant approach. “Those roses I discovered outside my door this morning - was it you who pushed Hubert into leaving such a gift? It hardly seems something he would undertake on his own.”

“I had nothing to do with it.” The rock slipped from her hand and she fumbled to retrieve it before it sank too deeply into the muck.

She didn’t need to look at him to tell he was out of sorts, and her mentor instincts flared. “If you must know, he saw me collecting lilies for Dorothea and took it upon himself to find those for you.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand faltered. This was obviously not what he had expected to hear. The silence that followed dragged on so long that she would not have been surprised if he’d simply left, displeased with her for dispelling his notions about her husband’s humanity.

Instead, he closed the distance between them and retrieved the still-dirty bag - Hubert’s, she noted, the irony not escaping her - and began to scrub. He didn’t seem to mind being up to his ankles in freezing mud in near-total darkness, but he had never been one to shy away from demanding or unpleasant tasks.

They worked in silent companionship for some time before Ferdinand found his voice again.

“To think she had written to me not the week before…” -he paused to recover his breath and a tear glimmered on his cheek in the faint moonlight- “gushing about the ball and just... ready to be home.”

He shook his head. “I am sorry. I know it is not Hubert’s fault, but this was truly so unexpected. She was supposed to be _coming back_.” 

“I won’t ask you to apologize, but you know he would have prevented this if he could have. We were all ready for her to be home.” 

Ferdinand nodded, Hubert’s bag all but forgotten and collecting filth from the bottom of the creek.

She squeezed his shoulder when he choked out a sob. “Here” -she took the bag from him- “go for a walk, clear your head, then the two of you need to talk.”

Under different circumstances he might have argued, but he surrendered the mud-soaked bag without protest and pulled himself to his feet, disappearing into the canvas of trees like a dead man walking.

Ferdinand was nowhere to be found by the time she returned to camp with mostly clean saddlebags, but Hubert’s demeanor had lightened considerably. It was a good start. 

* * *

The fire burned low and the moon was high in the clear night sky but Byleth found herself with little desire to sleep. Sylvain had volunteered for the second watch and busied himself with lance drills, strange shadows dancing about with each swing of the blade of bone. The relic took on an eldritch quality in the firelight, the glow of the crest stone pulsing in time with his movements.

There was an unfamiliar tug in her chest as she watched Sylvain step through the motions, as if she was witnessing him and the lance melding into one being. Like it was alive. 

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Hubert spoke, his deep voice pulling her back to reality.

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” He, too, had eschewed sleep in favor of revisiting his maps and notes and had sat beside her in quiet contemplation, his hand occasionally straying from the page to find hers. But his gaze was trained on Sylvain now. “A relic in the hands of someone capable is a wondrous thing, indeed.” 

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze when she stiffened. “But it is nothing compared to even an ordinary blade in the hands of a master.” 

She leaned back into his chest, not caring that she disturbed his paperwork. “Nice sentiment, but you’re full of shit.”

He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the side of her head, papers forgotten. “I meant it. Your fixation with losing the Sword of the Creator is concerning. That sword was nothing without _you_. You’re far more capable than-”

“Did you have to destroy it?” The knowledge that the sword that had guided them along their bloody path to a new world had been reduced to ashes festered in the back of her mind. Upon returning from Fhirdiad, she’d awoken in the monastery infirmary after a fever set in from an improperly treated wound. Having slept by her bedside, Hubert promptly mentioned the destruction of the sword - so casually she wasn’t even sure she’d heard him correctly. 

He paused. Was that hesitation? 

“I’m sorry, Byleth.”

She wriggled out of his embrace to face him. Deep shadows cast over his sharp features in the dim firelight, but his eyes glowed with warmth and kindness despite his dour expression. She traced the shadows along his cheekbones and he leaned into her touch. 

“Don’t be sorry. Not for that.” 

Her fingers found his lips and he closed his eyes, a shudder passing through his tall frame. He looked so vulnerable right then, a rare sight for a man as guarded as Hubert von Vestra. Before the moment could pass she pulled him into a gentle kiss, tongue teasing at his lips until he groaned into her mouth. 

Without breaking the kiss Hubert’s hand moved to her hip; her breath hitched at the strength of his grip, evidence of barely suppressed desire. She could still feel the warmth from the fire, dimly aware of how exposed they were, but something in her snapped - from the stress of the last couple of days, no doubt - and goddess help her she couldn’t stop. She needed him. Her hands tangled in his hair to pull him closer-

Something sharp cracked her upside the head and she jumped back. Heart racing and positive she was flushed from head to toe, she turned and was faced with an unamused Sylvain.

“Seriously? Your tent is _right there_.” He pointed the lance dramatically at a small canvas tent - barely large enough for two - not ten feet from where they sat.

Hubert scooped her up in his arms without missing a beat, chest heaving, but not from the effort of lifting her. “You heard the man,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He nipped at her neck and she shuddered, barely aware of Sylvain rolling his eyes as they disappeared into the tent. 

* * *

They had broken camp just after dawn. Sylvain gave both Byleth and Hubert a wide berth for a while, but otherwise most of the group’s easy camaraderie had returned. Traversing the mountain pass, Byleth savored this newfound sense of peace as Garreg Mach came into view in the distance.

Everything was as they had left it, with the addition of a layer of dust, but not a chair was out of place. The heels of Byleth’s boots clicked softly on the flagstone walkway, echoing strangely in the empty space. 

To think this place had once been so full of life. So full of hope. She shook her head to chase away thoughts of too many promising young lives cut short by the war, hurrying past the classrooms ravaged by conflict and time. She imagined the hallways packed once more with bright-eyed students, recalling how she would shove her way through the chattering crowds-

-and straight into Hubert’s back. 

He motioned for them to freeze. Ferdinand and Sylvain fell into formation, taking up position behind a stone archway. And that’s when she heard it. The conversations of long-dead students floating through the halls had not been her imagination running wild - _someone was here_. 

Focusing, she heard footsteps from around the corner.

Hubert swore under his breath and they simultaneously ducked into the old Golden Deer classroom as hooded figures walked past.

Another pair followed the first and Byleth overheard one of them say, muffled through a beak-like mask, “Our source is reliable. It should be here, have them keep looking.”

She recognized that mask from the war. The Agarthans - the true identity of those Hubert had so affectionately dubbed Those Who Slithered in the Dark - had filled in her ranks with mages during some key battles, and that mask was their signature. Every single one had been proficient with dark magic and had killed with ruthless efficiency.

How many of them were there? 

Byleth started to draw her sword, only pausing when Hubert shook his head in warning. Several minutes passed in tense silence before another, larger group passed by. When their footsteps were out of earshot Hubert gave the signal and they fell back to the dormitories. 

“How” -Ferdinand heaved the solid oak door of Bernadetta’s old quarters closed- ”did they get here so quickly?”

Hubert paced and Sylvain draped himself over the creaky old bed with a groan. Byleth perched herself in the deep windowsill, the glass foggy with age, but it would do to ascertain movement.

“Several days head start, since it seems they have my men,” Hubert said after a long moment’s deliberation.

Ferdinand grit his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists. Byleth’s heart raced trying to keep track of both the courtyard and Ferdinand’s mental state. No matter how much Hubert had failed to divulge at the initial meeting, they had to maintain a united front until they were safely within the palace walls again. Then the two of them could sort each other out to their heart’s content.

“Hold on, hold on” -Sylvain rolled into a sitting position- ”how do you even know that? I thought there was only one survivor? That one guy who sent the letter?”

Hubert shook his head. “The letter only speaks to Dorothea’s fate specifically. There were two others accompanying them who were not mentioned. I mistakenly assumed that they had perished as well.”

“And, again, how do you know?” Ferdinand asked before Sylvain could pipe up again.

“Simple. Because what they’re looking for is actually in the Goddess Tower.”

“We need to go.” Before anyone could interject, Byleth hopped out of the windowsill when a group of hooded figures approached from the north. “Now.”

By some miracle no one noticed them clambering across the grounds and across the bridge to the tower. Her senses were on high alert as they traversed the open area; if they were spotted here they would have no choice but to engage. 

“Go on ahead, there’s something I must take care of in Dorothea’s stead,” Hubert said. He remained near the bridge, arms folded and looking to the hulking ruins of the cathedral.

“We shall go together” -Ferdinand stepped forward to block his exit, clearly done with Hubert’s secrecy- “It is safer, and will not cost too much time.”

“No.” Hubert’s eyes cast about. He seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at Byleth. “I won’t be long.”

Byleth stepped forward alongside Ferdinand, eyes narrowing. Arms crossed over her chest, she fixed Hubert with a glare she hadn’t needed since their Academy days. She had perfected it only a few short weeks into her tenure and it had sent more than a few students fleeing her wrath. The last few days had involved pulling a long string of half-truths of out her husband, and it stopped now.

“This is insane. Whatever it is you’re so keen on us not knowing can’t be worse than what got us dragged all the way out here in the first place. Ferdinand, take Sylvain and get to the top of the Goddess Tower. I’ll go with Hubert and secure… whatever it is that’s so important.” She shot Hubert a look. It had better be important. She wondered if he really knew how much he was risking right now, or if this was an instinct of his that she would always be at odds with.

Hubert bristled, and for a moment it seemed he might actually be willing to entertain having this fight. She watched him consider his options - jaw rigid, shoulders set - but instead of the resistance she’d come to expect, he softened. 

“Very well.” His gaze was still far away, but some of the tension had melted from his shoulders. “We haven’t the time to waste arguing. Sylvain, I trust you can disarm a basic protection ward?”

Sylvain inclined his head in a poor imitation of a nod. “In theory, sure-”

“Good. You will know it when you see it. We’ll join you when we’re able.” He nodded curtly at Byleth before setting off for the cathedral at a jog.

Byleth took off after Hubert, following him across the bridge and into the cathedral. The gate had been left open and the enormous wooden doors were ajar. Their boots echoed throughout the cathedral as Hubert rounded the corner that led to the lower levels. 

The Holy Mausoleum. 

What in the goddess’ name was down there that he needed so desperately? 

Dread settled in the pit of her stomach when she stepped into the cavernous room. It was as she remembered it - largely empty aside from a few stone coffins on a raised dais at the far side of the room - but her unease persisted. The traps had been disabled years ago, and Hubert strode confidently across the room to stop in front of the dais. He paid no mind to her trailing so far behind, and a hand placed atop the smooth stone killed the question lodged in her throat as the coffin lit up spectacularly, the sigil beneath his hand glowing an unearthly green. 

She was going to be sick. 

“Hubert? Hubert, what-” She lurched forward, the weight in her gut telling her exactly what he was about to do, but unable to find the voice to tell him to stop, to scream at him for lying to her, for not _trusting her_.

The coffin slid open. 

She didn’t know when she’d closed the distance between them. He finally chanced a glance at her, but her gaze remained transfixed on the object in his hands.

Out of the coffin came the Sword of the Creator.

Byleth backed up one step, then two. This didn’t make any sense. Why was it here, as if she’d never found it? Why hadn’t he destroyed it? Why had he _lied?_

“Hubert…” she started, only to be cut off by the sound of someone clapping.

Byleth drew her sword and stepped in front of Hubert. She didn’t recognize the man approaching them. He wore Agarthan robes, but his lack of mask marked him as no mere foot soldier. 

“Well done, Lord Hubert,” he said with venomous emphasis on Hubert’s name. He continued his approach, unperturbed by Byleth’s presence. “I never would have expected you to hide it in plain sight, but I’m pleasantly surprised by your resourcefulness.”

Byleth squared her stance and brought her blade to the ready. She risked a glance over her shoulder at Hubert, whose eyes were darting frantically around the room; he seemed to be calculating the risk of running.

“I’ll be taking the sword now.” It was said with such finality that Byleth was almost surprised when Hubert didn’t give it to him. “No? Pity.” He snapped his fingers and the walls shimmered. Dozens of masked Agarthan soldiers warped into the room at once.

They were surrounded.

Hubert swore and shoved the sword back into the coffin and kicked the lid closed. It was solid enough to hold for now and the sword would be too heavy for either of them to wield effectively.

A spell burst into life overhead, filling the room with a brilliant, blinding light. Byleth staggered back as spots danced across her vision. Some sort of flare? She blinked, desperate to regain some sense of orientation.

The flare spell had been so blinding that the tomb seemed to plunge into total darkness in its absence. The silver of her blade flashed as she swung in a wide arc, keeping a masked attacker at bay. 

Closing her eyes, she felt her way through the darkness, the unique sounds of spellcasting guiding her. Fighting by Hubert’s side for so long had afforded her ample opportunity to learn the timing of magical attacks.

SIzzling. A fireball - from where? She ducked as a fireball blazed overhead, the heat singing her hairline.

Crackling to her left. Spikes… _now_. She dodged to the right as a column of magic exploded from the floor.

Footsteps from behind. Pivoting on her heel, her blade sunk into an abdomen with a sharp thrust. The dying man’s screams pierced through the chaos and her sword came loose with a boot to the chest. Warmth spilled over the crossguard and onto her hands, the grip slick with the dead man’s blood. 

The chamber was no longer completely black but a muted gray, occasional sparks of purple casting ethereal glows on the walls nearby. 

_Hubert_.

With a steadying breath, she flicked the blood from her blade. Held to her side, she almost expected to feel the distinct vibrating resonance of the Sword of the Creator reacting to the carnage, begging her for its next sacrifice.

Parrying a blow from a lance, she carried her momentum forward to plunge her blade deep into her attacker’s chest with a sickening _pop_. He crumpled with a whimper. She kicked free, wiping the blood from her face with a gauntleted hand. The room tasted of death.

Like a creature from myth, half a dozen men appeared to replace the two that had fallen. 

Byleth brought her blade up into a defensive stance to catch her breath. As if sharing a consciousness, the Agarthans’ hands began to glow, sigils appearing in the air as they chanted an incantation in perfect unison. Or, the _appearance_ of perfect unison. Only one was actually moving his hands. Him. She just needed to get the one on the left. 

Taking a deep breath, she shifted her weight ever so slightly. Her timing had to be perfect to avoid getting turned inside out by a supercharged blast of miasma.

...Wait.

...Wait.

_Now._

She lunged. 

But instead of relieving the mage of his head, a burst of magical energy flashed between them and cut her attack short.

She looked around frantically for the source, only to lock eyes with Hubert from across the room, face stricken with panic and fingers still crackling with the aftereffects of the spell. 

_Fuck_.

Byleth threw herself to the floor as the mage finished his incantation. Time slowed as her shoulder hit the ground, her organs vibrating with the frequency of the spell. An eternity passed before she collapsed into a heap all at once in a puddle of vomit. The dark corners of her mind reached for her crest, her divine pulse. She needed another chance. Hubert needed- she vomited again, her limbs feeling like they were pulling themselves away from her body. She screamed. 

As quickly as it had begun and no less than a lifetime later, it was over. The sounds of battle came rushing back all at once, the metallic taste of blood mixing with bile in her mouth.

She had to move. She flailed blindly for her sword, the hilt sticky with blood. A sob tore from her throat when a boot came down on her wrist. She watched as her sword was kicked away, her wrist crushed and pinned to the floor. 

A half-laugh escaped her as she looked at the masked face looming over her. _So this was it. This is how the Ashen Demon falls._

Instead of a last blast of magic or a sword to the neck, she was dragged to her feet. Unable to support her own weight, she dropped to her knees, her arms yanked behind her. Something was snapped around her neck - a collar? She struggled and a bolt of electricity coursed through her. She heard herself whimper. They bound her wrists with some sort of stone manacle, but she felt nothing.

She could only pray Hubert fared better.

* * *

Sweat dripped into Hubert’s eyes from the searing heat of fireball after fireball. They were relentless, and apparently only knew one spell. He had managed to put some distance between himself and the main group of casters, buying him the precious seconds he needed to launch his own return volley. 

A hole opened up in the floor and swallowed one of the enemy mages before he could even scream, and a second was ripped limb from limb by miasma bomb in slow motion. 

A shout from across the room drew his attention. Through the dimness there was a flash of silver and a body crumpling to the floor in a pulpy heap.

_Byleth._

She was charging headfirst at the largest group, sword aloft as if it were… he froze. Had she gone mad? She no longer possessed the power to subdue such a large group head-on, let alone single-handedly. With a growl he disengaged from the incantation threatening to slice a man in half and focused his remaining energy to a fine point, sending a blast of dark spikes at the group in front of Byleth.

She hesitated when the spell that should have collided with the Agarthans in the middle of the room sailed past and dissipated into thin air. 

That was all it took. 

In that single moment, he watched helplessly as she collided point-blank with miasma, spasming violently as she hit the floor. 

He ran, but before he could close the distance to striking range a pool of liquid darkness formed under his feet. 

A scream tore itself from his throat as a knife-edged spike of magic ripped through his thigh. He crumpled under the pain, hands frantically grasping at his leg but finding nothing to dislodge. He couldn’t move. Blood pooled on the floor by his feet and his breath came in choked gasps. He needed to focus; he could still hear Byleth’s screams just feet away. 

He couldn’t breathe. The room suddenly took on a hazy quality and time seemed to slow. 

The click of boots on the stone floor echoed strangely in the unnatural silence. 

“Well done. You’ve brought us quite the gift.” The man from earlier strode from the shadows and gestured at the group in the middle of the room, who by now had restrained Byleth. She knelt on the floor, hands bound behind her back. She still struggled, but it was clear whatever they had used to bind her was draining her energy.

“Myson,” Hubert growled through the pain. His head spun, but he finally recognized the man before him as the one responsible for unleashing hordes of demonic beasts across Fódlan. “Thales…” -he gasped through another spike of pain- ”finally let you off your leash?” He managed a grin that was really more of a grimace.

He locked eyes with Byleth for a moment and all he saw was a glassy acceptance. He could still get her out of this, just needed to keep him talking a bit more...

“I knew you were saving this for me” -Myson held the Sword of the Creator aloft, admiring the segmented bones of the blade in the dim light - “but I hadn’t expected this _and_ the Fell Star herself. I am truly grateful.”

He waved his hand dismissively, still admiring the sword in his grasp. “You may take her.”

“Sir.”

“Byleth!” Hubert screamed. Raw, unadulterated rage filled him and with an incredible effort he pulled himself off the floor, launching himself at Byleth before crumpling once more under the weight of his useless leg. 

The man closest to Byleth touched her shoulder and in a flash of fuschia light, they were gone.

Hubert flexed his fingers, straining against his blood-soaked gloves. If he focused, he might have enough magic left to-

“No.” Myson snapped his fingers and the air forced its way out of Hubert’s lungs. 

Hubert lurched forward, all of his weight falling on his hands as he tried to catch his breath. He gasped out an incantation, a last desperate attempt to save himself... if he couldn’t save Byleth. 

Nothing. 

Panic clawed its way up his throat. He’d been silenced. 

Another pool of darkness opened beneath him. White spots exploded in his vision as a bolt of dark magic pierced his shoulder. He whimpered, collapsing under his own weight. He tried casting again, hoping desperately for something, _anything_ , but his fingers wouldn’t respond, and with growing horror he realized he couldn’t feel his hand.

“I should just kill you now. Thales would be pleased; you’ve been nothing but a thorn in our side for years.” Contempt oozed from the man’s voice and he raised the Sword of the Creator to strike. 

Before Myson could bring the blade down on Hubert’s neck there was a shout from the entrance. What looked like a _meteor_ caught the man in the chest and sent him hurtling backwards, tripping over the raised altar. He scrambled to his feet; the room exploded into a flash of light and he disappeared with the remaining soldiers.

Familiar voices called out, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Ferdinand. Sylvain. 

And… Dorothea? 

Of course not. Was this the kind of trick dying minds played on weak men? 

He closed his eyes, laughing with what little energy he had left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a doozy. What did you think? Feedback is appreciated and encouraged!
> 
> Also, is there any interest in an E-rated one-shot that would extend the campfire scene?
> 
> **8/8/20:** Said extension of the campfire scene has been posted: [_Let Them Hear_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25794364)


	6. Chapter 6

Byleth.

They were calling for Byleth.

Hubert groaned, vision blurring. A hazy smoke thick with magical residue assaulted his senses. He was dimly aware of the ground beneath him, sticky and warm with blood, and he drew a sharp breath when a gentle hand - not Byleth’s, he reminded himself - pressed to his face. He choked on a sob, gloved fingers leaving bloody trails on the floor as he fought weakly for something to grab onto, to pull away, his left arm hanging useless at his side. 

“Ferdie! I need some help,” a voice called out nearby. Dorothea. No - his mind was weaving falsehoods again.

Footsteps behind him. 

Rolled onto his back, there was a sudden pressure on his chest. His breath came in sharp gasps and with his good hand he reached out in a vain attempt to pry the weight off him. 

“Hubie.”

Her hand again - her thumb wiping blood from his cheek - damn it all. 

_“Hubert_ , listen to me.”

She wasn’t here. 

She was dead. 

She couldn’t be here. 

“Dorothea-? How-” he croaked.

“Later,” she whispered. There was a flash of bright light and her palm pressed against the gaping wound in his leg. He snarled, twisting and writhing against Ferdinand’s grip. Residual dark magic - a grim reminder of how close Myson had come to ending him with a flick of his wrist - flared into a pit of unending torment that threatened to engulf him. 

“Keep him still! I have to stop the bleeding.” 

White-hot lightning lanced through him when the heel of Ferdinand’s hand came down on his shoulder. His struggling melted into resigned acceptance and his agony faded to a dull roar with the tingling warmth of the healing spell. 

He shivered, chest heaving. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat, but the cloud of pain shrouding his thoughts had lifted - if only a little.

“She’s gone,” he finally managed between gasping breaths. 

Byleth was gone. His mind replayed his fatal error in scattered, disjointed fragments: the look of horror dawning on her face as she realized what he’d done; a cloud of miasma hanging in the air, lingering far longer than it should have; her body convulsing on the floor; her screams as she was wrestled into submission; the gaping emptiness where she had been just moments before, stale air still crackling.

He’d failed. Failed Byleth and Lady Edelgard both _and_ jeopardized their efforts at uniting a weakened Fódlan. The weight of what he’d done settled in the pit of his stomach. Any assurances of her being alive - that he could fool himself into believing, anyway - were cold comfort. The Agarthans had been prepared for this - to take her and kill him where he stood. 

“Gone where?” Sylvain asked, jogging over from the other side of the room, voice rising with barely concealed panic. “Did you see where they took her?”

Hubert shook his head and said, “Warp spell. Too many of them. Can’t have…”-he hissed as the pain in his leg flared despite Dorothea’s efforts-”gone far.”

“Please search for her, Sylvain. We’ll get Hubie back to the horses,” Dorothea said.

Sylvain nodded. The relic in his grip glowed a faint red and he took off down the hall. 

“No, I must-” Hubert tried to struggle to his feet to follow Sylvain. Byleth needed him and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to turn the monastery upside down to find her. He would search for her until his last breath if that’s what it took to bring her home. 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Dorothea interjected with an unnerving cheerfulness. She put a hand to his forehead and everything went black.

* * *

There was a commotion as the enormous gates of the Imperial palace swung open. Those still inside the palace walls that evening had formed a small crowd and were vying for a glimpse at the party making its way up the road. Edelgard approached from behind the crowd, flanked by ever-present Imperial guards; the messenger had been a bit slower than the citizens and she was left with little choice but to do something about the crowd herself, as the gatekeeper had his hands full. They had not sent advance word of their quick return and Edelgard had been unprepared for their arrival - not having expected them for another day at least. 

She stepped into the crowd, only to have one of her guards block the path in front of her. She bristled, but could hardly fault them for doing their job and not allowing her to waltz straight into a crowd of civilian onlookers. The second guard remained behind at the rear. 

She yelled, “Everybody make way!” A few people standing closest to them skittered out of the path, but it had been insufficient to budge the masses.

“Clear a path!” The guard shouted, the signature bass of his voice reverberating throughout the courtyard and sending the indelible signal that the Emperor had spoken. The response was immediate and the onlookers jumped to either side of the cobblestone pathway, several looking sheepish at not having realized whose presence they were in. 

As the crowd parted and the horses came into view she expected to see the four of them, exhausted but no worse for wear.

What she saw instead shook her to her core. 

Sylvain was in front. He was covered in mud and dark circles sat under his eyes. His horse limped as if it had been forced to run the entire journey nonstop and he slumped forward on the saddle coming through the gate, the sight of the palace draining the last ounce of fight from him. 

The other three horses lagged by a few yards. Ferdinand’s face was grim, familiar signs of exhaustion written in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His horse slowed, head sagging from the exertion. 

Edelgard’s breath caught and the world stopped spinning. 

The last two horses were tied together, and atop one of them - instead of Byleth - sat Dorothea, with Hubert supported over her shoulder. He glowed faintly, and it took Edelgard a moment to realize that Dorothea must be exuding a consistent, low level of magic. Dorothea’s ordinarily perfect hair was a wild tangle of curls, her face drawn and gaunt. 

As unbelievable as Dorothea riding through the palace gates was, Edelgard was unable to tear her eyes away from the riderless horse - the horse that should have held Byleth, her friend, her mentor, her _dear teacher was gone oh goddess where had she gone why was she gone-_

A gauntleted hand on her shoulder jolted her back, catching her before she’d allowed herself to fall to her knees.

“Everybody, stand back! Let them through!” She was shaking and her voice rang with an urgency that caused those who had crept back towards the path to step aside. 

“Inform Manuela of the situation and have her meet me in the infirmary at once,” she said to the guard behind her, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

“Yes, your Majesty.” With a bow, the guard disappeared into the palace.

Taking the reins of Dorothea’s horse, she led her up the path - past the dozens of staring onlookers and straight up the steps to the palace. There was no time to fetch the stablehands; the horses could be attended to later. 

Edelgard helped Hubert to the ground. He was conscious enough to accept her support - though he was doubled over due to the height difference - and she carried nearly his whole weight on her back when he immediately stumbled after putting weight on his right leg. His clothes were bloody and torn, he reeked of smoke, and his eyes were unfocused. She swatted away Ferdinand’s help. 

Ferdinand then took up a position at her side, poised to intervene should Hubert’s bulk prove too much. 

Sylvain and Dorothea trailed silently behind. 

Manuela was waiting for them when they arrived at the infirmary a few minutes later. She sprang into action upon seeing the five of them, sweeping the clutter from an unused bed and straightening the sheets. “Bring him here,” she said, her voice calm even as her hands trembled. 

Hubert didn’t protest when Edelgard transferred him to the bed, his breath coming in shallow, pained gasps.

Manuela set to cutting Hubert’s uniform away, exposing the raw, angry flesh beneath. His leg was a tangle of scar tissue that had formed too quickly - from the consistent exposure to healing magic - ridged with purple tendrils that twisted and turned into each other and spread like venomous little veins past his knee. 

Upon finding his shoulder in much the same condition Manuela paled and stepped back, the cart full of potions clattering behind her as she reached out to stabilize herself. “This is…” -she brought a hand to her chest, unable to look away- ”I’ve never seen dark magic trying to spread through the bloodstream like this.” 

She moved to rifle through the pile of books on the floor across the room, dusty old tomes flying as she frantically searched. “Someone fetch Hanneman. Please,” she said, closing a book and choking on the cloud of dust it left behind.

Edelgard looked to Ferdinand and he nodded, disappearing into the hallway without a word to find the former professor. 

“Tell me what happened,” Edelgard said to no one in particular, the strain in her voice partially masked by her imperious tone. With Hubert in such a state she had acted without thought, pushing aside the questions threatening to eat her alive until he had been seen to. There hadn’t been time for questions.

Dorothea stepped forward. “I did what I could to keep him stable” -she gestured to Hubert- “but I don’t know how much-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Edelgard snapped, losing patience. “Please explain to me” - she turned to Dorothea- “how you are standing here, alive, while _Byleth is not_.” The last part had been said so forcefully she was nearly grinding her teeth.

The air felt like it had been sucked out of the room.

Dorothea stammered something incoherent and looked like she might crumble on the spot.

Edelgard sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Forgive me, I am forgetting myself. Manuela, please have one of your apprentices look after Dorothea, because according to Hubert she _shouldn’t_ be alive right now.”

Dorothea opened her mouth to protest but deflated at the implied _you look like hell_ written on Edelgard’s face. 

Manuela nodded and gestured vaguely to a bed across the room with some clothes piled on it and with a dramatic sigh, Dorothea perched herself on the edge. 

Edelgard noted the wince Dorothea had tried to hide and how she’d favored her right side as she sat. It brought Edelgard no satisfaction to be right for once. 

Ferdinand returned with Hanneman a moment later.

Without a word Hanneman approached Hubert’s bedside and gasped. “Shocking,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he immediately set to work gathering vials from the nearby cart. He plucked the book that Manuela had been holding from the floor and nodded, setting to work.

Edelgard hoped he knew what he was doing.

A young apprentice healer appeared in the doorway and almost turned right back around, but Manuela stopped her before she could disappear into the hallway. “Please examine Ms. Arnault for injuries while I assist with Minister Vestra.” 

Edelgard noted Manuela’s formal address with an appreciative nod.

The young apprentice’s eyes went wide - having just taken in the grisly scene before her - but she nodded grimly and approached Dorothea’s bed.

Pulling a chair to the side of the room, close enough to keep an eye on the healers but far enough to be out of their way, Edelgard motioned for Ferdinand and Sylvain to do the same. 

“Which one of you is going to tell me what actually happened?” Edelgard hissed once the two of them had joined her in the small empty corner of the infirmary. Coated with several days’ worth of grime, they were weary and neither seemed inclined to be the first to speak. 

This was no good. She would never get anywhere with this kind of reticence from them. She stood with a dramatic sigh and poked her head into the hallway, hailing a passing servant before returning to her seat.

“I am having some food and tea brought to us,” she said, “since it looks like you very well may have ridden through the night.”

No more than a few minutes had passed before a cart was wheeled into the room. A platter of meats and cheese accompanied a pot of tea, still brewing.

Ferdinand did not touch the tea. Sylvain held a slice of cheese to his lips and it hovered there as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. 

“You were supposed to be getting information Dorothea left behind, but instead you came back _with_ Dorothea, but without Byleth. And Hubert is...” _Dying_ , she wouldn’t let herself say, glancing over her shoulder at Hubert’s bed.

Finally, Ferdinand picked up a cup and poured himself tea. “This must seem truly insane.”

She wasn’t going to argue with that, though he seemed to be saying it to no one in particular. 

With some hesitation, Sylvain said, “We made it to Garreg Mach without any issues. We even found the cache Hubert told us about in the Goddess Tower.” He abandoned the slice of cheese in favor of a cup of tea. “The ward on it gave me a little trouble, but we got it open and everything bagged up.”

“Why didn’t Hubert open the cache for you? By the sound of it, the ward was of his own design.”

“Yeah, well...” he trailed off, hand tangled in his unruly hair as he slouched in his chair. 

“Hubert was not with us,” Ferdinand said, taking another sip. Ferdinand was on edge, but how much of that had to do with anything unresolved between him and Hubert before they’d departed was unclear. 

Edelgard narrowed her eyes but waited for him to continue. 

“He was insistent that there was something urgent he needed to see to. I could not for the life of me fathom what could be more important than the task we had been set to, but… he persisted.” He shook his head and trained his gaze on Dorothea, still at the mercy of the apprentice healer. “The professor… Byleth, she followed him.”

“Those Agarthan goons must have followed them after we’d gone into the tower,” Sylvain added. 

Her blood turned to ice. “You didn’t say anything about the Agarthans. They were at Garreg Mach?”

Sylvain nodded. “Whole bunch of them running around looking for something. We all figured they were after the cache in the Goddess Tower.” He paused to consider his tea. 

There was a _but_ in there. When Sylvain didn’t continue, she offered a guess. “But they bypassed the Tower completely, didn’t they?”

Her brow furrowed when both men nodded. “Where did you find Hubert?” She didn’t like the connections her mind was forging, but it needed to be asked. 

They spoke simultaneously. “The Holy Mausoleum.”

Oh no. 

“And Dorothea?” 

Dorothea made eye contact from across the room, apparently having heard her name. Edelgard swallowed hard, truly taking in the sight of her for the first time since they’d arrived. Dorothea had thinned out, almost dangerously, and judging by the bandages being wrapped around her torso had broken more than a few ribs along the way. 

“I honestly cannot say. She awaited us at the bottom of the Goddess Tower when we returned with the information.” Ferdinand shook his head, breaking his gaze away from Dorothea to pour himself more tea. “She looked like death, but she demanded to know where Hubert was. We followed her, of course, but only just in time to save Hubert. Byleth was gone.” His eyes met hers for the first time all afternoon. “I am truly sorry Edelgard. This is not the news any of us had wished to bring you.”

Edelgard felt like she’d been stabbed. She took a deep breath, mouth dry, and tried to get her wildly beating heart under control. 

“Gone?” It was a halting question, uttered in disbelief as her field of vision narrowed to a scuff mark on the floor, the balance of her world hanging on the edge of a precipice. Focusing on her breathing, she willed her heartbeat back under control, bringing her teacup down to her lap with shaking hands. She stared into the cup, her breath forming tiny ripples in the dark liquid. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a long draught of steam. 

Byleth couldn’t be gone. She had faced the fires of Fhirdiad unharmed; she’d killed _Seiros herself_. There was nothing she was not capable of, and the thought of having to take one more step without her dear teacher by her side nearly had Edelgard doubled over. 

The next question she was almost afraid to ask. “Was there… a body?”

Ferdinand and Sylvain both looked shocked. 

“No,” Sylvain said. “We were too late. By the time we found Hubert he told us they were long gone. I searched for as long as I could, but” -he shrugged an apology- “we needed to get Hubert back. We had to make a choice. I’m sorry.”

Byleth was alive. Edelgard could hold onto the hope that her uncle wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of kidnapping her teacher if he’d simply intended to kill her. Was that perhaps the motive for his inexplicable visit the night of her birthday? She exhaled a shuddering breath, unsure if she should be feeling relieved or even more panicked now that she knew Byleth had been kidnapped by the Agarthans. 

She needed to speak with Hubert. 

“Thank you, that’s enough for now.” They moved to leave and she added before they could get too far, “Get some rest, but please don’t leave the grounds. I may yet require you both once we start going over the information you brought back.”

She noticed Manuela hovering out of the corner of her eye after Ferdinand and Sylvain departed. 

“Your Majesty, if you have a moment,” Manuela bowed stiffly, obviously aware of the apprentice still hovering about. “We gave him something for the pain,” she said, “so he should sleep through the night. But I ask that you return in the morning. We will be able to give you a proper update then.”

“Of course.” Edelgard couldn’t help one last nervous glance at Hubert before she too retired for the night.

* * *

Edelgard made her way back to the infirmary just before first light. The hallway was still dark except for a sconce burning low nearby and she could make out hushed whispers behind the door. 

She cringed when the door creaked as she pushed it open ever so slightly. So much for eavesdropping. 

“-I was merely pointing out the inconsistency of the wound in comparison with-” 

She saw Manuela step on Hanneman’s foot, hissing something that sounded like _“not now you idiot”_ before turning to Edelgard with a smile plastered on her face. “Ah! Your Majesty! Please, come in.”

Edelgard took a tentative step into the room, unsure about exactly what she’d just walked in on. Manuela and Hanneman both stood by Hubert’s bedside, both looking a little worse for what must have been a night with little sleep. 

Hanneman recovered himself and bowed. “Your Majesty,” he began, “while Hubert’s wounds were indeed serious, he is expected to make an almost complete recovery. In due time, of course.”

Moving to Hubert’s bedside, she took in the sight of him. He still slept. Edelgard could just make out hairline fractures of purple peeking from under the bandages, creeping away from the wound. She shuddered, though it looked far less horrific than it had before. Hanneman had clearly made some headway. Without thinking she reached for the trace evidence of the dark magic that had brought Hubert low; he stirred under her touch and she stepped back.

“You said almost. Is something the matter?” 

There was a pause. It was Manuela that spoke first. “There was some nerve damage from the wound to his shoulder. We did what we could, but-”

Hanneman interjected, “Unfortunately, my experience with wounds of this nature is highly theoretical, and-”

“-what we’re trying to say is, the damage was serious enough that there’s no way to tell how long it will take to heal, if it ever does. He may never fully recover the use of his hand, or he could be good as new in the next few weeks.”

“Have you told him?”

Manuela and Hanneman exchanged a glance as if this hadn’t yet occurred to either of them. 

Edelgard heaved a sigh. “I suppose that should fall to me.”

She tried not to roll her eyes as they simultaneously sighed with relief.

“If that is all, Your Majesty, he will likely wake soon. We can leave you to break the news in private,” Manuela said. 

Edelgard examined Hubert’s shoulder again and frowned. There was something else there, just above his collarbone. It was angry and welted, but distinct from the tendrils of magic lingering beneath the surface. The skin was unbroken, and was that… “A bite mark?”

“Ah, yes, I was just remarking on that as you arrived,” Hanneman said, adjusting his monocle. “It is most irregular-” He harrumphed when Manuela elbowed him in the ribs. 

Noting the expression on the older woman’s face, Edelgard took another look at the mark and felt herself flush. 

Oh. _Oh_. 

She felt a sudden, twisting pang deep in her chest.

“Er, thank you,” she said, waving them off through clenched teeth. She turned and hid her face with her hand to hide the heat creeping across her face.

An eerie silence descended on the infirmary. Dorothea slept peacefully nearby, but she and Hubert had been the room’s only occupants last night. Taking a seat on the edge of Hubert’s bed she took his hand in hers, wondering if he could feel her touch. 

Her answer came when he didn’t respond at all. 

“I told you to be careful, you idiot.” She blinked away the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Byleth should have been the one to be here to hold his hand. She turned his hand over in hers to examine his long fingers, her own tiny and childlike in comparison. His hands were everything to him; she had no idea how she was going to tell him. 

He groaned. “B’eth,” he slurred, the cocktail of potions Manuela had given him the night before wearing off. 

Edelgard tensed. Had she accidentally given voice to her thoughts?

He stirred again. “Hubert? It’s me. Edelgard.” Maybe he could hear her. Or maybe she was talking to herself.

Green eyes, dull from sedatives, opened. He didn’t speak - merely stared at her for what felt like an eternity. His hair was matted and stuck to his face from sweat.

“You look terrible,” she said, unable to completely keep the tears at bay and glad there was no one else to see her crumble. 

She felt compelled to fill the void when he didn’t respond. Odd, considering how accustomed to long stretches of silence they had become over their lives. Hubert had always been quiet, and the years spent as each other’s sole companions had inoculated them against the need to be constantly speaking. 

His wedding ring was cool against her skin and her heart sank. She sighed. Better get it over with. 

“Make a fist, Hubert.”

He stared intently at his hand, but not so much as a finger twitched in response.

“Try again?” She sounded stupid even to herself and the frustration on his face was only growing, his eyes stormy.

“Please don’t patronize me, Your Majesty. You know as well as I that I cannot.” She could hear the anguish in his voice, though his face was a hard mask. 

She let his hand fall back to the bed. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, some of the hardness leaving his expression. “I will adapt. I must, and quickly, if I am to find Byleth and-” He stopped himself and she frowned.

And? Her conversation with Ferdinand and Sylvain niggled at the back of her mind. “Hubert,” she started, “What was in the Holy Mausoleum that was so important?” She had a feeling, a bad one, and she needed to hear him say it. 

The unspoken question of _how could you let her get taken_ lingered like a weight between them.

He stiffened and looked away.

She wasn’t going to let him out of this by filling in the blanks for him this time. 

“Hubert,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his knee.

There was an emotion in his eyes rarely seen; it was the closest to guilty she’d ever seen him look. He closed his eyes before responding in just above a whisper, “The Sword” -he swallowed- “I hid the Sword of the Creator in the Holy Mausoleum. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it. When they… when they took her, they took the sword as well. I am… truly sorry, Your Majesty.”

There it was. Her instincts had guided her correctly, but it didn’t make his confession any less of a stake to her heart. Ire flared in her chest, white and hot. 

She believed his apology was genuine, but because of his secrets Byleth - her mentor, his wife, their _dear professor_ \- was at the mercy of the Agarthans. 

Edelgard released a shaky breath. The Agarthans, those who were responsible for untold atrocities across _centuries_ , had Byleth. More than merely a confirmation of what she’d learned from Sylvain, it repeated like a mantra in her mind until her breathing was shallow and her eyes unfocused. They didn’t just have Byleth. They had the Sword of the Creator. The possibilities flashed before her until they were indistinguishable from her own memories.

When she looked at him again she almost fell apart right there. Tears stained his cheeks, his head thrown back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. The mask he’d been wearing had shattered completely - though he fought it, she had never seen him weep so openly. 

She squeezed his good hand perhaps a little too tightly, the rawness of her anger dampened by such a rare display of emotion from Hubert.

They had to get her back - and they didn’t have much time. Edelgard didn’t need to know what Thales was planning to know that, with the Sword of the Creator in his possession, things had just become infinitely more complicated.

Standing, she said, “Make this right, Hubert. Manuela won’t be releasing you for another few days. I suggest you use that time to think. As soon as you’re cleared for duty, we’ll be paying my uncle a visit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to mention that I have a fandom/writing tumblr: theotherbucket.tumblr.com. I post links to new chapters when they’re available, WIP updates, peeks at drafts, and general fandom nonsense. :) Feel free to follow or drop me a line!
> 
> I hope everyone likes angst, because uh... yeah. We're in that now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another new tag this chapter, please check before reading further.**
> 
> So I don't usually post music recommendations for things I write, because it's so personal, but I can't resist once in a while. For this chapter I really recommend _Your World Will Fail_ by Les Friction. It's perfection.
> 
> This one is slightly shorter than the last couple of chapters have been, but necessary.

Byleth opened her eyes to a darkness so complete she thought for a moment she might be dead — cast back into the void of pure nothingness, the very place she had merged with Sothis. Unlike the void, however, she wasn’t floating unmoored from reality. She was laying on something. Something cold and hard, like the flat of a blade polished to a sparkling shine. She tried to move but leather straps digging into her thighs and upper arms held her fast. 

She stopped struggling for a moment and let her head fall back against the metal surface with a dull _clunk_. As her eyes adjusted to the dark more detail crept into her vision. The walls — closer than she had expected — also shone like polished metal, but it was still too dark to make out any sort of ceiling or if there was anything — or anyone — else in the room. 

Echoes of voices drifted in from nearby and her stomach leapt into her throat. That’s right. The last few moments that she remembered with any clarity flashed before her: there had been a group of Agarthans, she’d had one in her sights and… Hubert had cast a spell that almost hit her. She had been so startled that she lost her footing — just in time to be swallowed by a hazy thickness that had warped all sense of time and space. She had dangled for an eternity — or was it seconds — her body expanding and contracting and — _screaming —_ she’d been screaming, begging for it to stop. And when it finally did, they were waiting. Fighting was impossible — what more could she have done? Her mind had still been looping through dimensions and her stomach had turned itself inside out as they’d pulled her to her feet. The last thing she remembered before blacking out was Hubert, doubled over in a pool of his own blood as that man — Myson — loomed over him with the Sword of the Creator. 

The voices drew closer. 

Byleth struggled against her restraints and her breath quickened. The more she fought, the tighter the leather bit into her flesh. Her heart thundered against her ribcage — _deep breaths_. She willed herself to still, closing her eyes and counting her heartbeats until her muscles loosened and she relaxed against the cold metal beneath her. 

She listened, trying to hear what they were saying, but the clanking of boots on the floor distorted their speech to the point of unintelligible. A glimmer of hope flickered to life in her chest; Hubert had still been alive when she was taken— perhaps he was here somewhere— 

The door opened behind her with a high-pitched grinding noise and vaporized her train of thought. She craned her neck to get a better look and was blinded by the light flooding in from outside. It was too bright for sunlight, it had to have been some sort of magic. Where _was_ she?

“That’s her. The Fell Star. Careful,” one of the voices said, now standing directly behind her, so close she could feel his breath on her hair, “check the restraints and get out.”

A second person moved to her side — still too dark to make out any features — and tugged at the straps lashing her to the table. He must have been satisfied, because he stepped aside and then both men vanished as quickly as they had appeared. 

Byleth didn’t have time to contemplate the strangeness of the encounter before the room lit up in a brilliant, unnatural green glow. Boots echoed through the open door, stopping to her side just behind her.

“Thales has been notified of your arrival, Fell Star,” said the voice she now recognized as Myson. “But until he gets here, there are some things about you I’ve been dying to know.”

Her skin crawled at the tone of his voice and she bucked against the restraints, not caring that she seemed to make less progress each time. “Tell me where Hubert is,” she spat, panting with the exertion of trying to wriggle away. 

He stepped away to retrieve something from near the wall, the tinny clinking of metal echoing through the room. From the angle her head was at, she couldn’t see what he was doing and she instinctively tensed, trying to shrink down through the table and into the floor below. 

“Ah, yes, you’re his _wife_. I remember now. Congratulations. He’s dead, we had no need of someone so insubordinate as him.”

Every muscle in her body seized up in shock. “Liar,” she hissed under her breath as her heart pounded between her ears. He was playing her for a reaction. If she was here, Hubert was most certainly nearby...

“I’m afraid not,” he chuckled and approached from the side again, appearing to enjoy her reaction to the news. He was holding something long and thin and— 

She yelped as the needle was jabbed into her arm, just above the strip of leather cutting into her bicep. 

“Hold still,” Myson instructed, as if she could move. “This will only take a moment.”

She opened her mouth to ask _what_ would take a moment but her answer came when her blood erupted into a burning river in her veins. Every fiber of her being was on fire. She bucked wildly against the restraints, the legs of the table thunking against the floor with the force of her exertion. There was no escape - her breathing hitched and stuttered and she heard herself whine. She closed her eyes, fingers searching fruitlessly for relief in the cool metal at her sides. 

_Focus, Byleth_ — a small voice, distant, cut through the pain. Forcing herself to breathe, she escaped inward, the rushing of blood in her head twisting and morphing into the familiar rage of a battlefield. She’d stopped counting the number of times she’d been torn apart at the hands of an enemy after she could no longer recount them on two hands — somewhere around halfway through her year at the Academy. Though every last one haunted her, the lurid details of one in particular seeped back into her mind, aided by the poison setting her alight. 

The feeling of the arrow lodged in her heart was more vivid than usual — her fading heartbeat pounded traitorously in her ears as she hemorrhaged with each pulse, again and again. She had collapsed near instantly, eyes wide and the life draining from her. Fending off wave after wave of enemy mages nearby — time moving in slow motion — _Hubert_. There had been something in his eyes she’d never seen before — a flash of pain, perhaps, as he dove for her. She was dead before she hit the ground, yet Sothis had reached through time to drag her back once more. Hubert had been icy again at her next lesson — having no recollection — and it would be years — an endless, agonizing eternity — before he would look at her again with any sort of warmth.

The memory dissolved into vapor. The burning gave way to a tingling sensation, then almost immediately morphed into shards of glass shredding through her nervous system. She let out a choked, half-hysterical shriek, wrenched firmly back to reality. It was like she was being consumed by whatever Myson had given her — it was scorching its way through her and searching for any available opening, any chink in her defenses, but by some miracle she was _fighting it_. 

“Fascinating,” Myson said to himself, nonplussed. “I would expect loss of consciousness before now. Perhaps some effects lingered beyond the Immaculate One’s death...”

Dimly aware of him reaching for her again, panic ripped through her and she thrashed wildly, only for him to recoil as if he’d been struck at a sudden voice from the door. 

“I thought I had made myself clear— I wanted her cooperating, not dead.”

Cooperating? Byleth strained to listen over the roaring in her blood. She watched Thales approach, her chest heaving and eyes wild with pain. Thales, whose presence had loomed like a specter over their lives, had somehow - in the span of days - regained the advantage and held the future of Fódlan in his hands. He had seen them coming. He had anticipated all of it.

The raging fire was cooling slightly, though she continued to struggle against her bonds. Thales flicked his wrist and she gasped, inhaling deeply as the restraints loosened. She trembled in relief, breath coming in choked sobs as some of the pressure against her chest faded.

“Apologies, Lord Thales.” Myson bowed obsequiously. “My intention was not to eliminate the Fell Star, merely to ascertain the full extent of— ”

“Quiet,” Thales snapped, turning to fully face Byleth. 

She stiffened when he closed the distance between them and reached out to touch her face. His hand was like ice, knotted knuckles and clawed fingernails barely registering as human against her cheek. Empty white eyes bored into hers and she froze, the moment suspended in time as rage bubbled up weakly in her chest. 

Her fingers twitched, itching to draw the blade no longer at her hip. 

“Now, Fell Star — _Byleth_ ,” he said, her name an afterthought, “ I was hoping we could have a conversation.”

Byleth glared at him as if she could reduce him to ashes with her gaze alone. She had nothing to say to him — not after being forced to watch Hubert bleed out while struggling to remain conscious herself — and nothing he had to say would ever be worth hearing. 

“You see,” Thales said as he approached a workbench opposite her, Myson jumping out of his way, “you think you can remain silent and maybe, just maybe, you’ll survive this. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He turned to face her again, something in his hands. “Your Emperor would. Losing both you and Lord Hubert would certainly be a blow.”

Whatever Myson had given her had mostly run its course and the pain was now a consistent low-level ache that pulsed through her bones. 

Byleth grit her teeth, determined not to play into Thales’ desire to get her talking, fingernails slicing into her palms slick with sweat. Her hope of finding Hubert alive began to crack and crumble and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She burned to lash out at them with something, _anything_. The restraints had been loosened just enough for her to catch her breath and freeing her hands was impossible. She had already been stripped of weapons, the familiar weight of the daggers on her hip and in her boot noticeably absent.

“But here’s what you don’t know, Fell Star.” All pretense was abandoned along with her name as he held the Sword of the Creator aloft.

Byleth’s breath quickened and her mouth went dry – she couldn’t look away if she’d wanted to.

Thales chuckled, a dark sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “That’s what I thought. Myson was fortunate enough to retrieve this from Hubert before he died – with this, I can give you your immortality again, Byleth.”

What.

No. This was a trap – a trick.

Her heart pounded, rhythmic like the pulsing of a crest stone, and with rising horror she realized she _wanted it_. She flexed against the leather, straining to break free, to get closer.

Thales laughed and stepped back. She was on fire — every part of her screaming as the sword was moved further away. “Now we’re getting somewhere. This is yours; I just need your word. You have helped us so much already. _Think_ , Fell Star. Think of what we could achieve if we worked together. Leave the Empire, ensure our survival, and this is yours.”

Byleth was sweating. She threw her head back against the cold metal table and closed her eyes to banish the sight of the sword, but it was emblazoned on her eyelids as if she had stared too closely at the sun.

No. She couldn’t want it.

But she could hear it — it sang, and her blood resonated in harmony with its siren’s call.

The instinctive struggle must have been written plainly on her face, because Thales continued, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Lord Hubert had simply delivered you and the sword as we’d asked. You don’t want his noble sacrifice to be a waste.” He paused, considering the pained expression on her face. “We do have other options. Less… stable options, should you refuse.”

Something in her snapped. “Sacrifice — you killed him!” she screamed, pulling away from her restraints with inhuman strength, all thoughts of the sword — and the goddess — banished in the face of the torrential hurricane of grief and rage inside her. The leather of her bonds creaked and cracked where Thales had loosened them, and she saw him take an involuntary step back.

The storm inside her transformed, twisting and roiling until it was focused into a blade of white hot fury.

He wanted a response?

Byleth spat in his face, chest heaving and eyes wild with unrestrained rage.

“No.”

Thales shoved her back down to the table and tightened the restraints — _she couldn’t breathe_ — his expression rearranging itself into something almost neutral, though the anger clearly simmered below the surface. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d agree — this would have been much simpler if you had.”

Regaining his composure, he turned to Myson and nodded. “Do it.”

Myson stepped up, looking gleeful at having been called upon to continue where he’d left off. “You still cannot wield the sword,” he explained, drawing red liquid from a small glass container into some sort of needle while Byleth looked on, helplessness threatening to swallow her whole, “until I return to you the Crest of Flames.”

Byleth’s eyes widened.

“I was able to obtain a small amount of The Immaculate One’s blood — albeit it was after you killed her,” he continued, tapping the small glass vial with a fingernail to settle the contents.

She tensed in anticipation, cursing when he stabbed it into her arm again and making eye contact with him as he withdrew. His eyes sparkled — _he was enjoying this_.

“This is untested” —he shrugged— “but her being dead at the time of extraction should hardly matter.”

Byleth didn’t have time to respond before she was screaming.

Then darkness. 

Silence.

She felt herself scream — lungs burning with the exertion — but she was voiceless.

 _Byleth_ , the small voice returned, cutting through the void.

It was raining. The darkness lifted and she was standing in a field, covered in blood, a sea of corpses before her. Had she— something caught her eye and she dropped to her knees.

Oh goddess. 

She cradled a familiar head of dark hair to her chest. He was so still, so cold, and she knew instantly what she’d done. She sobbed into his hair, tears mixing with the mud and dried blood. 

Before she could tell him she loved him, before she could apologize and beg to take his place, he was gone and the battlefield dissolved into darkness once more. 

_Byleth._

She floated, surrounded by the void. The tips of her fingers were tingling, just before the blood in her veins turned to magma and consumed her from the inside out.

Her soundless scream was cut off as lava filled her lungs, burning and scorching and choking.

Her skin boiled and peeled in reaction to the liquid fire inside her — sloughing like a snake’s — and in its place patches of dark, leathery scales spread and multiplied.

 _Fight, Byleth, you must resist._

That voice again. Byleth struggled to find her footing, to ground herself. These scales _were not her skin_. These claws _were not her hands_. Her mind buzzed as the concept of _skin_ and _fingers_ began to slip away like sand through a sieve.

_Yes, just like that. Remember. Keep trying._

Falling. She was falling, directionless, the darkness giving way to blinding sunlight as she crashed in the monastery’s training grounds. There were dozens of eyes on her, the room captivated by a shocked silence. Her eyes followed the pole of the lance in her hand — skin still dark and scaly, fingers twisted into inhuman claws — and the body beneath her gurgled and spasmed, pierced through by the blade. A bloody hand reached up to cover hers, and when she felt his fingers squeeze hers as if in apology…

No. _Goddess, no_. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the vision away, but the feeling of Hubert’s life slowly draining away beneath her persisted. She clawed at the lance, desperate to dislodge it without causing him further harm, and in her frenzy he brought his hand up to cup her face. 

“This is your fault,” he whispered, thumb smearing his blood across her cheek.

Unlike before, the scene didn’t immediately dissolve. Byleth was left holding Hubert’s hand to her cheek as the light left his eyes. 

She screamed into his chest, choking on a sob. “Hubert, no. Goddess, no, I’m so sorry. Come back, _please!_ ”

Again. She had failed him _again_. How many times would he have to die by her hand? How many times would she watch him slip away in her arms, nothing in his eyes but pain and regret?

Not again. 

She would not allow herself to be the instrument of his destruction. This was her fault — he was safe only where she wasn’t.

Heart hardened with resolve, she pulled the lance from his chest with a sickening _squelch_ and stepped aside. The room was once again full of faceless, chattering students, and she knew what she had to do.

It was time to go. 

Bloody lance in hand, Byleth returned to the void.

The fire in her veins returned but there was no more pain. In its place was a burning fury, an energy pulsing through her carrying with it a new kind of strength.

 _Keep fighting_ , said the small voice, persisting still. 

She had fought as best she could.

Byleth was covered in sweat, breathing labored and hair plastered to her face. She flexed her fingers and felt smooth hard carapace instead of flesh. 

One red eye opened. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is still with me, you get a cookie or something because that was intense. It was intense to _write_. 
> 
> There _is_ a light at the end of this tunnel, but it might take us a while to get there so bear with me. :3
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed that - thoughts? Hate mail?
> 
> Don't forget to follow me @ theotherbucket.tumblr.com!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still alive! I apologize for the long wait for this chapter!

_“Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea…”_

The song emerged, unbidden, in her mind and Dorothea sang softly to herself, the melody at once both faraway and familiar. A memory. Another life. She weaved her way through rows of immaculately tended roses, fingers tracing new blooms of every color. With no real aim, she was content to bask in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun and the smell of the salty air blown in from the sea. 

The gardens had been one of the the first places she’d gone upon her release from the infirmary, finding herself wanting to get lost in the maze of color, each row more vibrant and exotic than the last, more and more as the days wore on. The beauty of flowers, she’d discovered over the years, was in their honest simplicity. Flowers held no preconceived notion of status or wealth. Flowers did not bloom only for those they deemed worthy. They simply _were._ Though the gardens were often packed with visitors from the city, she had discovered a seldom-used enclave that bordered one of the palace’s massive outer walls, the shaded stucco draped in vines and sequestered away from unfamiliar, prying eyes. 

_“To the open arms of the sea…”_

Plucking a black rose in full bloom, she turned it over in her hands, considering it thoughtfully before adding an ivory one to what was turning into an improvised bouquet. 

She’d discovered the memorial Byleth had left for her on one of her first walks outside the gates. She had stopped in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat when she’d reached the bluff overlooking the bay. Faded lilies delicately intertwined between the gnarled branches of an ancient tree— so gracefully and purposefully arranged that she knew instantly it was the professor’s, Byleth’s, final parting gift. The longest branches appeared to be reaching longingly for the sea, like arms extended in prayer. 

Calling her home. 

Out on the bluff, alone, with the sea breeze whipping at her hair, she’d been struck with the image of the professor climbing the tree to reach those furthest limbs to weave the flowers, honoring the lives of the fallen through the ephemeral beauty of flowers. She’d felt a pang of despair— or was it guilt?— so sharp she’d nearly doubled over. She had not been able to bring herself back to that spot, knowing that she now stood in the professor’s place.

Dorothea stared at the flowers in her hands. Pitiful in comparison to the tree wreathed in lilies, but she would keep these close. Until she was found. 

Turning, she noticed a flash of blue buried amidst the deep green of the vines. “Where did you come from?” she whispered, carefully plucking the small iris bloom from where it had forced itself through a crack in the wall, entwined with much larger, hardier plants— determined to survive.

_“Wait for me, wait for me…”_

A smile lit up her face and she slipped the iris between the roses in her grasp, recalling the professor’s explanations of the finer points of flower symbolism over tea. Blue irises were… hope.

Hope.

_“I’ll be coming home, wait for me.”_

Dorothea started as another voice joined with her own, its sonorous alto smooth but unrefined. She hadn’t realized she had been singing loudly enough to be heard by anyone. She whipped around, but already knew who would be standing at the entrance to the alcove.

Ferdie. 

Ferdinand took her silence as tacit approval to approach, hands clasped behind his back and downcast. “Dorothea,” he began, only to be cut off by her arms around his neck as she closed the distance between them with a limping, pained leap.

She buried her face in his neck, closing her eyes and inhaling the scent of him— sandalwood and spice and _Ferdie._

They had been in Enbarr for days and he had scarcely spoken a word to her, keeping instead to Edie’s side in pursuit of deciphering any evidence that might lead to Byleth. 

There had been no time for his arms around her, no time for platitudes or sighs of contentment when she’d found him again at the monastery. There had been no time for “I’m sorry” or “I love you” when Byleth was missing and Hubert was dying. 

But he was here now. They had time now, just the two of them amongst the flowers. The flowers would not whisk them off to a meeting or demand answers when there was only a gaping hole where memory should have been. 

He laced his fingers through her hair as he held her, his breath soft on one her ear and his heartbeat drumming in the other. “Dorothea,” he tried again, placing his hands on her shoulders and stepping back to look at her. 

“Please,” he said, “I hope you can forgive me.” His hands slid from her shoulders and down her arms, his amber eyes locked with her green ones. He raised a gloved hand to cup her cheek, a soft smile on his lips. “Had I been able, I would have spent every moment by your bedside. To think you spent days languishing in the drafty old infirmary with naught but _Hubert_ for company.”

Something flashed in his eyes at the mention of Hubert, but Dorothea tucked it away for later. She brought a hand up to cover his much larger one and his gaze softened under her touch. “I don’t know about that,” she laughed, “Hubie can be quite pleasant when he’s delirious.”

He barked a laugh. “Still,” he continued, “I am glad to see you out and about so soon. Manuela said it was amazing you made it as far as you did on your own with fractured ribs.”

Dorothea instinctively reached down to where the bandages remained under her dress. She had been released on the condition that she not fall off another cliff before the residual magic finished knitting the bones back together. Another week by Manuela’s estimate.

Ferdinand gave her arms a gentle squeeze to bring her back.

She reached out to brush aside a stray lock of his hair that had fallen in his face. The flowers in her other hand hung loosely at her side. “I’m sorry I didn’t write as much as I could have,” she said, “and I’m sorry—” she paused, throat suddenly tight and finding herself unable to give voice to the pain of being separated for so long. _You were always my last thought at night and the first in the morning._ “I missed you,” she said instead. 

“I missed you too,” he said before kissing her. 

There was a sorrowful determination in his beautiful, sunset-colored eyes when he finally pulled away. As if an internal battle raged inside him. She worried at her lip but before she could find the words to comfort him he’d dropped to a knee.

He took her hands in his, the little bouquet held between them. “I realize this may seem sudden to you, but I hope you will hear me out,” he said. 

Her heart fluttered in her chest but she did her best to keep her face a mask of neutrality, hoping that the heat she could feel creeping up her neck stayed there because _what if she was wrong and he wasn’t actually about to_ — 

He continued, breaking her out of her spiral of thoughts with a thumb rubbing gently at the back of her hand, “Those few days, after we heard the news— when we, _I_ , thought you were dead” —he took a deep, shuddering breath— “it was agony. Torture that I did not think was possible. I made the mistake of letting you leave once without telling you something important, and I spent those agonizing days certain I would be taking that regret with me to my grave. Now with all… _this_ ” —he gestured around them vaguely, but his meaning was clear— “I cannot, _will not_ , lose you again.”

He paused and produced a single red rose from behind his back. A small black box was visible in his hand against the white of his glove.

The heat creeping up her neck was now an inferno.

“Dorothea, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife, the Duchess von Aegir?”

She opened her mouth, but found the breath had been stolen from her lungs. The tears that she had kept at bay through every lonely night, every labored step back to the palace, finally fell freely. She pulled him into a kiss before he could open the box, ignoring the fresh pain blooming in her side from the sudden exertion.

“Took you long enough,” she whispered between kisses salted with tears. 

* * *

The palace was haunted. 

Hubert sat at the edge of their bed, his useless arm cradled in his lap. It had taken little to coerce Manuela into allowing him to continue his recovery in the privacy of his own quarters, but the resurgence of his nightmares and the many little reminders of Byleth’s presence were a steep price for privacy.

Evidence of her was everywhere. She haunted their bed, cold nothingness replacing the warmth he’d become so accustomed to. She haunted the sitting room, flowers from the gardens wilted and dying on every surface. She haunted his dreams, eyes wide with fear as she slipped from his grasp over and over again. 

Her boots by the door, her cloak hanging next to his.

It had been a mistake to think he could return to their rooms as if nothing had happened. As if he could sleep any better under the weight of her absence then he could in the drafty, bustling infirmary. 

He pushed himself from the bed and pulled on his shirt in front of the mirror— slowly, painstakingly threading his dead arm through the sleeve. The buttons he fumbled with one hand, cursing each time his fingers slipped. He eyed his jacket hanging by the door with its myriad buckles and decided against it. It was late, well past midnight, but he would make do with the chill.

Door already half open and dim moonlight from the hall spilling into the room, Hubert noted a small wicker basket perched on the table nearest the door. Byleth had used it for collecting flowers from the gardens, he recalled. He paused a beat before snatching it off the table and locking the door behind him. 

The palace walls loomed like dark monoliths in the moonlight and the grounds were bathed in a familiar silence. Even the birds, noisy and plentiful during the day, had ceased their warbling in favor of a few hours’ rest. Rest that Hubert would not receive and did not deserve. 

The moon lit his path with a silvery glow as he slipped through the darkness, past the stables and into the gardens. Even the flowers slept— save the few that bloomed only by moonlight. Hubert made his way past the rows of roses and their empty promises until he was faced with an iron gate set into the wall. His own little piece of the garden, hidden in plain sight and cultivated for a singular purpose. 

His hand glowed an incandescent purple and the gate unlatched with a creak. The beds were sparse but well tended and he knelt in the furthest corner of the small alcove where a tall, hardy plant with blooms of striking purple towered above the rest. 

The stem snapped easily between his fingers and Hubert was grateful for Byleth having left the basket out. Even before learning Byleth’s language of flowers Hubert knew better than to trust something just because it was beautiful. 

He tossed the flowers into the basket and remembered the first time his father had shown him its power. 

_“Just watch, boy,” his father said._

_A man squirmed behind him, gagged, bound, and eyes wide with fear. Hubert did as he was instructed and watched impassively._

_“Caught him plotting to poison the Emperor,” his father said, producing a small purple flower from his cloak with a gloved hand. “This is wolfsbane,” he instructed, turning the flower over in his hand for Hubert to see, yanking it away when Hubert reached for it._

_Hubert frowned, hand still outstretched. What was a flower going to do? Where was the knife? The poison? “I don’t understand—”_

_“Quiet! I said watch.” A wicked smile pulled at his father’s lips and he approached the prisoner. Hubert had expected him to remove the gag and force the man to eat the flower, but instead his father simply… rubbed it on the man’s hand, smiling all the while._

_It was moments later — Hubert had been counting his heartbeats in his ears — that the man stilled, eyes widening further before breaking into a sweat. He trembled before the spasms started. Breathing erratic, he struggled helplessly against his restraints until his entire body seized up, slumping over and only held to the chair by the rope that cut into his wrists as he sagged forward, lifeless._

Hubert resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair as he squashed the rest of the memory— not wishing to revisit any more of his father’s lessons— and made a mental note to replace his gloves.

He moved to stand, having gotten what he came for, but something caught his attention. In the darkest corner of his garden, nestled amongst the flowers he had allowed Byleth to cultivate alongside his, was a blue iris. 

His breath caught; it stood silhouetted by moonlight and he was helpless to do anything but add it to his basket alongside the purple wolfsbane. He smiled wistfully and locked the gate behind him. 

Returning to the palace with the basket slung across his good arm, he passed a servant in the hallway leading to his quarters and was greeted with a perfunctory nod and a thin-mouthed smile. Their eyes locked for a moment as if in challenge. The man’s gaze darted to the opposite wall when Hubert narrowed his eyes and served the man with an icy stare. Palace staff were intimately familiar with Hubert’s intimidating presence and rarely, if ever, dared meet his eyes. 

Hubert paused to watch the man shuffle his way down the length of the hallway, mumbling to himself the entire way.

Outside his rooms, Hubert fumbled with unlocking the door without dropping the basket. The toe of his boot connected with something metal on the floor and a clattering sound echoed down the hall. He swore under his breath and looked down to find his dinner tray— replete with the very best the kitchens had to offer, courtesy of Her Majesty, no doubt— still untouched and long since gone cold. 

How odd. Why hadn’t the servant that had passed him retrieved it? 

His hand on the lock stilled. He glanced at the deadly little package hanging off his arm and re-engaged the lock before ducking out of the hallway in the opposite direction. 

The stairwell was well hidden. Hubert placed his palm on the wall and a sigil glowed to life, revealing a cutout that had been seamless moments before. He took the steps two at a time, glancing over his shoulder as the door reformed into a wall behind him and left him feeling his way down in the dark.

His workshop lay covered in a fine layer of dust, his forgotten mistress, untouched since his wedding night. Tossing the wolfsbane onto a nearby table, Hubert went about collecting vials— some empty, others filled with liquid reagents— and set to work with a haunted determination. 

He had little time, and if he played his hand correctly he could make up for the loss of his arm. Thales _would_ pay— with or without the entire force of the Imperial army. Her Majesty’s hesitation to pursue Byleth openly only cemented the fact that this was, and always had been, _his_ war.

Hubert scoffed and set a knife from his belt onto the work table. He would find Byleth, and he would kill Thales slowly, a sadistic smile creeping over his features at the thought of the light draining out of his milky, inhuman eyes as the knife twisted in his heart.

* * *

Edelgard stood, hands clasped in front of her as the room began to clear out. She absorbed the questioning looks from the representatives of the merchants guilds with aplomb, nodding as their gazes searched for any hint of answer for today’s meeting. She would not crack— she could not give them the satisfaction. It was not something that could be voiced aloud, but it was clear in their steely gazes that they knew as well as she did: something was wrong with Hubert. 

She had anticipated outbursts of emotion from her usually stoic Minister— expected it, even, considering she had shifted the responsibility of searching for Byleth from Hubert to a contingent of scouts until his health was stable enough to lead a team in person. Being stripped of agency in the search for his wife would naturally cause some… turmoil, but she had just witnessed him give the head of the Faerghus Merchant’s Alliance a dressing down the likes of which have not been seen in a cabinet meeting in living memory. There would be apologetic letters to write if they wanted a united merchant’s alliance in Fódlan at all after this. 

“You wished to speak with me,” Hubert said after the last of the merchants had filed out of the room.

Edelgard took her seat again and regarded Hubert carefully before addressing him. There was a calculated hollowness to his expression, amplified by the dark circles under his eyes, but Edelgard knew better— an intensity simmered beneath the surface that set the fine hairs on her arms on edge.

“I need your reports on the scouts,” she finally said. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she needed to navigate this carefully. “It’s been a week, we should have heard something by now.” 

Hubert tucked his good hand under his chin and leveled her with a hard stare that dared her to press further, as if she didn’t already know the answer. As if he would have done anything short of breaking down her door the second he’d received any word beyond— 

“Nothing, Your Majesty.” He practically spat the words at her. “They’ve found _nothing_.” He paused a beat before adding, less venomous this time, “And here I thought this was about my rejecting the terms Faerghus brought to the table today.”

“That was not so much a rejection as an _incineration_ , but we both know it wasn’t about their ridiculous demands.” She eyed him critically. “Not really.”

He moved as if to fold his arms across his chest but thought better of it, letting his good arm fall to the table instead. He had the decency to look chagrined for a moment before the emotion was wiped from his face and replaced by the blank mask she’d become so accustomed to over the years. He was acting like a cornered animal, retreating into his thoughts and lashing out at anyone that dared extend a hand lest he be accused of needing pity. He had always been this way; it was as familiar to her as the sound of his laughter— real, genuine laugher— was foreign.

A week had passed with no progress and the signs of Hubert’s frustration only multiplied. He never mentioned it, but Edelgard could tell he was struggling with reconciling the loss of his arm against the bigger picture of rescuing Byleth. She’d been hoping for a swift recovery; _as little as a few days_ , Manuela had said, but it seemed that was not to be the case. Whether any feeling had returned at all was unclear, yet Edelgard had yet to witness so much as a twitch of a finger. She was beginning to regret putting so much pressure on him in the infirmary, as angry as she’d been about his secrets.

“Then tell me what it was about.” Hubert’s normally smooth voice, now icy, yanked her out of her thoughts.

“Don’t play games, Hubert.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “You’ve had the entire staff on eggshells all week, your meals have been left untouched outside your quarters, and are you even sleeping?” One glance at him sitting across from her told her that no, he had not been sleeping. The darkness under his eyes had grown deeper, his face gaunt and drawn with exhaustion. He was a walking corpse, left to wander the halls with sinister purpose. 

Tension radiated off of him. For a moment, she was convinced that he would simply leave. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thick with emotion and Edelgard’s breath caught at the sudden change. “You gave your blessing. While my loyalty to you and the Empire has never wavered, I thought it was understood that once we wed, my life with Byleth would become an equal priority. Now I see that you would have me do nothing while our spies continue to turn up empty-handed, wasting time we don’t have.”

“Hubert…” she trailed off and took a deep, focusing breath. “My orders stand,” she said, opening her eyes and keeping her jaw set. How could he accuse her of wasting time when every scout and spy at their disposal was in the field without reprieve? “We aren’t children anymore” — _and you can’t keep running off trying to fix everything by yourself_ — “and I need you to trust me. Please. I’ll transfer command of the search, I’ll oversee it directly.” 

It was a risk, but she was counting on Byleth having been captured instead of killed outright to mean that there was a _reason_ , something Thales was hoping she would do. A mistake she would make with someone so precious to her held in the balance. She couldn’t mobilize the full force of the Imperial army with that thought burrowing into the back of her mind, no matter how desperately she wished to see her dear teacher again. She just hoped to the Goddess that Byleth could hold on long enough for them to find her.

“And what?” he snapped, “wait another week, two, for news of _nothing_? How many more ravens carrying false hope must I endure before you’ve decided enough is enough and allow me to help my _wife_?” The look in his eyes right then turned her blood to ice. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I have done nothing but think this through. This is a death sentence for her.”

“What good are you to her in this state? Honestly, Hubert, we probably could have found her by now if you could get yourself together!” She knew he was their best hope; he was the one able to make use of what Dorothea had scraped together, but what good was their best hope if he stood to not only get himself but anyone sent with him killed?

Hubert laughed. A deep, sinister sound rumbling from deep in his chest, his voice dropping to a growl. “Better than you, sitting here playing politics.”

Edelgard exploded out of her seat, hands slamming down on the table. Her palms stung from the force of it and silence lingered between them for a tense moment. “How _dare_ you. You think I haven’t spent _every moment_ hoping for her return, wishing I could be anywhere but here? As much as you seem to think I’m just wasting time, Hubert, I am providing every available resource—” 

He cut her off, the crack of his fist hitting the table echoing throughout the room. “You’re _not_.”

Edelgard narrowed her eyes. Spies were disappearing at an alarming rate and Hubert wanted her to send him in his condition? No; he’d been her fiercest advocate and most stalwart protector her entire life. She would not allow him to pursue this recklessness, even if it meant… she covered her mouth and closed her eyes to get her breathing under control.

“I’m not sending you. I _can’t_.” She met his eyes, resolve unwavering, desperately willing him to see the situation she was in, to feel the sense of helplessness of having to put the needs of the country before one person, no matter how precious. She did not have the luxury of abandoning her duty, no matter how much she wished to. The knowledge that she had to keep an Empire in its infancy afloat while Byleth was lost, suffering, and waiting threatened to crush her like a boulder. “As you are I’d only lose you too.” _And the weight of Fódlan would fall to my shoulders alone._

Something flashed in his eyes. “You’ve never cared, have you? Not truly. Were all the times you wished my happiness a lie? Just empty words to keep me placated and by your side?”

Edelgard bit back a scream of frustration, the rage she’d spent a week controlling and squashing threatening to consume her. “I care about you enough to have given you my happiness.” _I love her too, Hubert, more than you know._

“I find that hard to believe,” he scoffed. “If you cared half as much as you claim, you would be stopping at nothing to find her and not sitting here entertaining the childish whims of every noble bastard that whines loudly enough to get an audience. You would not be pretending this is not even happening.”

That stopped her in her tracks, like a cutting gale to the chest. He truly believed— 

Her head snapped up when he stood and kicked his chair into the table. His wild green eyes met hers and for the first time in her life, the first time since she had known him, she was afraid. 

The spell broke and he strode out of the room without looking back.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” The reply was tossed over his shoulder, faraway and apathetic.

“Where are you going? We’re not finished!” she shouted, taking off down the hall after him only to stop short when he paused long enough for her to catch how his shoulders pulled to his ears and the fabric of his gloves strained as he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

“To fix what you won’t.”

He vanished around the corner and Edelgard stood rooted to the spot, servants weaving through the hallway around her. Once the shock— and the pang of sorrow that his faith in her seemed to be cracking— subsided, the decision to follow him was an automatic one. He would not be having the last word. Had she moved even a moment later, she might have missed the trim of his cloak disappearing down the next hallway. 

The opposite direction of his quarters.

Edelgard followed at a distance, far enough back to remain hidden from him— he’d given no indication thus far that he was aware of her presence behind him— while still keeping sight of him, whether that was by the heel of his boot or a swish of his cloak as he disappeared around yet another bend in the labyrinthine palace.

She followed him past the royal antechambers and an entire wing of servants quarters before he disappeared into what should have been a solid wall, an opening materializing with a touch of his hand. Before she could follow, a servant appeared from the opposite hall and Edelgard ducked behind a corner wall. She couldn’t risk being seen disappearing into the bowels of the palace, but neither could she let the door close. She held her breath, heart beating in her ears as she waited for the servant to pass by. 

There was a scraping sound and Edelgard peeked her head around the corner to find the servant had wedged his foot between the wall and the rapidly closing door. He wrenched it open with a grunt and disappeared.

Oh no.

Edelgard gasped and broke into a run, grabbing the door before it could close again. It took her full strength to keep it from crushing her and it was a miracle she was able to budge it the extra inch to let her slip through. That servant had ripped it open with just his foot, what kind of monster _was_ he?

The door slammed shut, or would have, were it not for the sound-dampening magic. Having just come from the bright hallway, the light appeared to have been completely sucked from the stairwell and Edelgard paused to catch her breath and let her eyes adjust. 

Damp air whipped past her face as she flew down the stairs, nearly tripping more than once on the uneven stone. She could hear Hubert shuffling around, glass clinking, and an acrid and acidic smell permeated the air. She pinched her nose and kept going.

When the stairwell finally gave way to a large underground room, she saw Hubert standing hunched over a workbench, the lines of his face severe with concentration. 

The servant was right behind him, dagger held in a white-knuckle grip at his side. 

“Hubert!” Edelgard yelled without thinking, but Hubert was already moving. 

Hubert whipped around with alarming speed, parrying the blow with the knife that had been sitting on the workbench. In one swift motion he sent the blade in the other man’s grip clattering to the floor across the room. The servant screamed and crumpled to his knees, cradling his hand in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, his knuckles split wide open from the serrated blade.

Hubert did not move in for the killing blow, and a moment later Edelgard understood why. 

Just as the man had tried to stand he’d begun to convulse. His legs went out from under him, leaving him writhing on the floor as he twitched. It was possible it was just a trick of the light, but she swore his eyes seemed to change color, flashing from brown to ice white and back again. He bashed his head against the rough stone floor in his fits, hard enough for blood to splatter on the toes of Hubert’s boots. Eventually, he stilled, eyes rolled back into his head.

When she remembered to breathe again, Edelgard had backed herself against the wall, chest heaving from adrenaline as she watched the gruesome scene unfold. 

There was only thing she could think of as the blood rushed to her head. To have been infiltrated to this point… Hubert was right. They were out of time.

“I’m sending for the Strike Force.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have Unchained Melody stuck in your head now, I'm not sorry. :)
> 
> What did you think? Writing Hubert and Edelgard having an actual argument was ridiculously fun but also absurdly difficult. I don't want them to fight. D:


	9. Chapter 9

An unusual quiet had settled over the council room, one that not even Caspar’s relentless fidgeting could disturb. Ferdinand glanced around the room one more time, folding and refolding the paper between his fingers. 

Where was he?

A servant — one of the few Hubert had managed _not_ to dismiss — had been dispatched to notify him of the strike force meeting hours ago, and yet his chair sat noticeably empty. Had he thought Hubert capable of anything resembling humor, Ferdinand might have believed his absence to be his idea of a jest. However, given the reality of the situation all Ferdinand could do was press on without him. Still, he hesitated.

Dorothea was the first to break the silence, looking to Ferdinand as if she expected him to _do something_ about this, but at the same time not unkindly. “I’m sure Hubie wouldn’t mind if you explained some things until he arrives? Surely he knows most of this already and can afford to miss a few minutes.”

Ferdinand straightened up in his seat, somehow managing not to stutter after locking eyes with Dorothea from across the table. A formal announcement of their engagement had not yet been made, not wishing to distract from the mission at hand, but Ferdinand wondered how many would have their suspicions by the end of this meeting by the way her gaze followed him across the room. 

“Of course.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Edelgard, who now occupied her ornate, high-backed chair at the end of the table. She sat with her elbows resting on the table, chin on clasped hands. She paused, prying her eyes from Hubert’s conspicuously empty seat before nodding. 

This meeting was to be hers to run, but Ferdinand had insisted on taking some of the burden from her in the wake of recent events, and now, with so much of her time taken by assembling complicated layers and intricate Imperial regalia from a lack of chambermaids, this was the least he could do. 

He stood, preferring to move about as he spoke rather than adding to the already grim energy of the room. “I would like to start by thanking you all for responding so quickly. The war is over and your service to the Empire complete, but you are all here in our time of need.” 

He paused to glance around at the familiar faces around the table — Caspar and Linhardt had traveled from the far reaches of Fódlan, Bernadetta venturing away from her family’s estate for the first time since the end of the war. Dorothea watched him, a kind smile lighting up her face, a complete counterpoint to the glassy-eyed look Sylvain wore next to her. Ferdinand doubted he’d been getting much sleep since being placed in charge of palace guard rotas before Hubert could insist on doing it himself.

“I understand Petra has been kept away,” Ferdinand said, thumbing through the sheaf of papers in his hands until he found the response penned by the new queen of Brigid, “but she sends her sympathies and her wishes for a swift victory.”

Setting the papers aside, Ferdinand clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace as he spoke. “We had to keep our correspondence brief, in case any were intercepted, but you all know that Professor, er, Lady Vestra”—he corrected himself with a glance to the two empty chairs in the middle of the table—“is missing.”

He waited for the nervous fidgeting and affirmative nods to die down before continuing, “What we were not able to tell you is that she is not just missing. She has been taken.”

“What?” Caspar exclaimed, pulling his legs off the table and rocketing forward in his seat. “Who’d be dumb enough to do _that_?”

“Do you recall my uncle, Lord Arundel?” Edelgard said, voice low and, to those who knew what to listen for, frayed. 

“That creepy guy from the ball? Yeah, he had Hubert all freaked out when he showed up. I didn’t think too much of it but— wait, was it _him_?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Edelgard’s eyes flicked continuously between Caspar and Hubert’s empty seat, the look on her face just as strained as her voice sounded. “However, he is not what he appears, nor who he claims to be. The real Volkhard Arundel died years ago; likely when I was a child.”

A chill went through the room then, and Ferdinand remembered that only a select few had been privy to the true nature of Her Majesty’s uncle. He had only been brought into the fold of secrecy recently, as the situation had spiraled quickly out of control and Hubert and Edelgard realized that there were some secrets they could not continue to keep. This would not be an easy revelation for Edelgard to make, and Ferdinand held the suspicion that he had only been told enough to keep him complacent, enough to know that his father had in some way been involved in this mess.

“His true name is Thales, and he is the leader of the Agarthans.”

“The what?” Caspar’s expression was pure confusion, but Bernadetta perked up at the name.

“Oh!” Bernadetta said. “Hubert calls them Those Who Slither in the Dark, doesn’t he?”

Edelgard smiled, a rare sight of late. “Yes, the very same.”

“But why would they take the Professor?” Linhardt was sitting up now. Ferdinand would have sworn that the man had been asleep this entire time were it not for how quickly he’d interjected. “With you — us — winning the war, didn’t they achieve their aims? I must be missing something. The Church is gone.”

“That wasn’t their only aim, I’m afraid,” Edelgard said. “I shielded you all from so much of what was happening, and for that I’m truly sorry. Dismantling the Church of Seiros was only the beginning for them. They’ve been using me for years— I knew this, I _allowed_ this, because I believed we had a chance at stopping them once we’d won the war. Once I’d gotten what Iwanted from _them_.”

Ferdinand moved to interrupt, to steer the conversation away from the murky water Edelgard was treading, but she held up a hand in protest. 

“Perhaps it was hubris on my part, thinking they wouldn’t find out that Hubert and I planned to eliminate them once the new Fódlan government was stable.” She shrugged. “It’s likely we overplayed our hand at Arianrhod.”

“I do recall Hubert mentioning his distaste for how Arundel questioned Byleth about Cornelia’s death,” Ferdinand said. “Perhaps that accounts for some of his appearance at the ball.”

“He’s always had a flair for the dramatic,” Edelgard said. 

Sylvain interrupted with a choked laugh. “You’re talking about Arundel and not Hubert, right?” His laughter morphed into a strangled little sound that made it clear that Dorothea had kicked him under the table.

Edelgard narrowed her eyes but otherwise ignored Sylvain’s outburst. “Ferdinand is right. Arundel has been suspicious of us since Cornelia’s death. And this was his way of taking the upper hand by force.”

When no one had any immediate comment, Edelgard sat back, her slight frame nearly swallowed by the enormity of the emperor’s chair. Something unreadable flickered across her face then, and she glanced back at Hubert’s still-unoccupied seat. Ferdinand instinctively reached down to grip the arms of his chair at the intensity of that look. 

“I believe we’ve waited long enough for Hubert.” She shot him a knowing glance that brooked no argument. “Ferdinand? Find him.”

“At once, Your Majesty.” Ferdinand stood, and with a stiff little bow left to retrieve the wayward minister.

* * *

“Hubert!” Ferdinand called as the door to Hubert’s quarters swung open. “I know you are here! You left the door…” Ferdinand trailed off when something crunched under his boot in the darkness. “... unlocked.” The foyer was dark, and once Ferdinand’s eyes adjusted he could see what looked like the scene of a significant struggle. 

Furniture lay overturned, cushions strewn about. Books upended from their shelves and spines heinously bent. He took a cautious step forward and righted a vase that had tipped over and nearly rolled off a nearby table. Again, he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered; any remnants of flowers it had once held crumbled to ash with the movement.

Perhaps Hubert _wasn’t_ here. Was this why he had missed the meeting? Had something happened?

Ferdinand was about to turn around and check for footprints in the hall, to see if perhaps Hubert’s paranoia about a second assassin had borne out, when he heard a muffled sound from the bedroom. 

He crept forward, mindful of broken glass and anything else underfoot that would give away his presence, hand on the hilt of the gilded sword at his belt. 

“Hubert?” he called out, his grip on the sword tightening when the noise immediately ceased. 

The bedroom was just as dark as the foyer, enormous curtains drawn over the glass doors that led to the balcony. Seeing them closed during the day sent a pang through Ferdinand. Byleth had adored that balcony and had always ensured that their quarters were filled with fresh air and light when he’d stopped by for a visit. It was as if Hubert were trying to smother his grief along with the sunlight. 

Ferdinand continued into the room one careful step at a time, nearly jumping out of his skin when a rustling noise came from the other side of the bed. 

He thumbed the guard on his sword, unsheathing it just a hair. 

“Go away.”

“Hubert!” Ferdinand could almost faint with relief. Hubert was still, half slumped over on the floor on the other side of the bed. He let the sword slide back into its sheath and cleared the room in a few short steps. Ferdinand’s mind was racing as he knelt to give Hubert a cursory examination, noting the unusual pallor to his cheeks and the total disarray of his uniform and the way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

“Are you alright? Are you hurt? Did you see their face?” 

“What are you talking about?” Hubert said without looking up. It was as if he did not even see Ferdinand.

Ferdinand paused and sat back on his heels. “What am I… your living room has been completely overturned!” He finally thought to take a look around the bedroom— so focused had he been on the source of the noise, he hadn’t noticed it was in the same state of disarray as the entry. 

What had once been Hubert’s work desk (before he’d relocated anything poisonous to a more secure location, Ferdinand remembered Byleth mentioning), was covered in teacups haphazardly stacked upon one another, some chipped, others stained in strange places. The nearest nightstand was in no better shape, piled high with used coffee mugs.

Papers littered the floor — nothing important, Ferdinand hoped, but it was impossible to tell through the coffee stains and how crumpled some of them were — and the bed was covered in half-filled, unsteeped tea bags. Most of the leaves had escaped confinement and littered the dark duvet and consequently the room was filled with a heavy, oily scent from the leaves mixing. Some had likely begun to go rancid.

“You are saying”—Ferdinand stood, plucking a document at random off the floor and trying to ignore the affront to his senses on the bed—“that you were not attacked.”

Hubert nodded, barely perceptible in the darkness. 

“This was you. All of this.”

No response. He didn’t know what Hubert was staring at, or why, but it occurred to Ferdinand that simply barging in and demanding Hubert return to the meeting was going to get him nowhere. He had never seen Hubert in such a state before— if it weren’t for the eerie, almost cat-like reflection of his green eyes in the dimness, Ferdinand might have thought him comatose. 

He suppressed the desire to escort Hubert to Her Majesty at sword point and sat gingerly at the edge of the bed, Hubert to his back. They sat in awkward silence for a few moments, Ferdinand shifting uncomfortably on the bed. The more he looked at the room, the more the pieces began to slot into place. The piles of cracked cups, the stained documents, the tea leaves scattered about the room— “You have been doing the work of the palace staff as well as your own.”

“Did you think I would leave Her Majesty to fend for herself because of my own stupidity?” Hubert’s tone was sharp enough to be startling. 

“Well, I—” Ferdinand grumbled. The venom in Hubert’s voice was familiar; to argue was pointless. “You could have asked for help. I would have gladly transferred my own staff; I am perfectly capable of maintaining myself.”

“I don’t require your help.”

Ferdinand stood to inspect one of the teacups at the top of the stack. The delicate gold filigree had been chipped away and a hairline fracture ran the length of the fine porcelain. It had been dropped, maybe more than once. “Have you always been in the habit of destroying a stockroom’s worth of porcelain before serving Her Majesty tea, then?” He brushed some of the tea leaves off the table. “Getting the tea _into_ the cup appears to have been an operatic struggle as well.”

Fabric rustled as Hubert turned to glare at him, though he was still inexplicably on the floor. At least he now had his attention. 

“Why are you here? Did you come just to torment me?”

“I came to see what had so thoroughly captured your attention that you were compelled to skip the strike force meeting.” There it was, the barest hint of a reaction from Hubert— the stiffening of his shoulders, his head turning away slightly.

“My presence is not required, and I’m certain you enjoyed being able to pretend you have a modicum of leadership ability.”

“Self pity does not suit you.” Ferdinand set the teacup aside and returned to the bed, this time sitting sideways to face Hubert, letting the barb roll off him. He had hoped to get Hubert back to the meeting before revealing any information, but at the moment he doubted Hubert could be coerced otherwise. “There is something you will need to hear. Please, swallow your damnable pride and just go to the meeting.”

“What is the point? I’ve heard it all, and the addition of the strike force will only serve to worsen my headache,” Hubert continued as if he had not, in fact, heard a word Ferdinand had just said. “More of my spies disappearing in remote corners of Fódlan. More empty platitudes and meaningless promises—”

“Hubert,” Ferdinand snapped, cutting him off forcefully. “She has been found.”

The weight of that revelation hung in the air between them like a miasma and Hubert went deathly still. “What did you just say?” It was a whisper, so low it might not have been meant for Ferdinand’s ears. But he had heard— he’d heard the tremor in Hubert’s voice, the hope he didn’t want to allow himself to feel. 

“I believe you heard me. Return with me to the meeting and we can—”

“No.” 

“Excuse me?” A shimmer of dark magic lit up the room and a feeling of dread crawled up his spine. He reached for his sword as the air around him became unbearably thin. He sucked in a breath only to feel like his lungs were filling with sludge. Hubert was gone, and by the time Ferdinand recognized the warp for what it was Hubert had grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him off the bed. He hit the floor, gasping for breath as the miasma consumed him. 

Hubert perched atop him with a knee to his chest and Ferdinand caught a glint of something metal. A dagger. 

“Hubert!” he gasped, scratching at his neck in a desperate attempt to breathe. His eyes were beginning to water. “Hubert — stop — make — it stop.”

The miasma vanished, replaced by cold steel at his throat. Ferdinand gasped, sucking in deep lungfuls of air even with Hubert’s weight on his chest, not caring that each rejuvenating breath pushed the blade further into his flesh. 

“How long?” Hubert’s voice was ice, and when Ferdinand didn’t respond quickly enough he pressed the blade against the hollow of Ferdinand’s throat. 

“I do not know — _what—_ ” What was Hubert talking about? Ferdinand’s mind spun in a panic.

“How long,” Hubert growled, “have you been pretending to be Ferdinand von Aegir?”

Ferdinand’s breath left him. Oh goddess. He closed his eyes and prayed to a deity he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore that Hubert would come to his senses. He didn’t want to find out if that was the knife Edelgard told him had killed a man with naught but a nick. “I have always been—” he choked out, cut off by Hubert’s knee digging into his solar plexus. 

“I’ve received no word from the scouts on the location of my wife. Seeing as they had explicit instructions to report to _me_ first, I fail to see how the real Ferdinand von Aegir could be in possession of this information.”

Ferdinand fought the urge to squirm lest the dagger break skin. His breathing became shallow. Before he could come up with something, _anything_ , to convince Hubert, the door flew open to reveal Edelgard. 

“Ferdinand? What’s— I heard—” She looked around the room, taking in the disarray but not seeming to notice the two of them entangled on the floor. “What happened here?”

“Your Majesty!” Hubert barked. “Stay back, I’ve found another one.”

She moved as if to physically remove Hubert from Ferdinand’s chest, but spotting the dagger in the gloom, thought better of it. “Hubert,” she said, voice low and dangerous, “release him this instant.”

Hubert tensed, and Ferdinand thought he felt the dagger’s blade press just a hair’s breadth closer to drawing blood.

“Why?” A cold, sinister laugh rumbled from Hubert’s chest. “He is not Ferdinand anymore. He has come wearing Ferdinand’s face to lie to me about my wife.”

“That is an _order_ , Hubert.” When he still did not immediately comply, Edelgard snapped, “That _is_ Ferdinand, and he’s not lying.”

“What are you talking about?” Hubert sounded suddenly like a child that had lost his way, his mask dropping for a fraction of a second. “I’ve heard nothing of any of this.”

The pressure released and Hubert unfolded off of Ferdinand. 

Taking advantage of Hubert’s obedience, Ferdinand pulled himself into a sitting position and backed himself against the wall, gaze flickering between Hubert — steely-eyed and with a death-grip on the dagger — and Edelgard, arms crossed and daring Hubert to move.

“I am the one who gave the order to redirect intelligence about Byleth. And it seems I was right to do so.” Edelgard stepped between Hubert and Ferdinand. Ferdinand bristled at the gesture— he still had his sword and had no need to be defended.

“Hubert, I understand you’ve been struggling,” she said softly. “This has been difficult for all of us, but I’m sorry my friend, I can’t let you do this to yourself anymore.”

Ferdinand begrudgingly accepted a hand up from Edelgard, still catching his breath and feeling his throat for cuts.

“What are you saying—” Hubert looked at her in disbelief.

“I’m removing you from the strike force until Byleth is recovered.” 

The dagger clattered to the floor. “You can’t. You _won’t_.”

Edelgard gestured to the chaos surrounding them. “Look around, Hubert. If this is your best work then you’re nothing more than a liability. I need to know that I can trust everyone on our team to do what’s in the best interest of the mission, and”—she shot a glance at Ferdinand—“what you’ve shown me is that you can’t trust _anyone_.” 

Hubert didn’t respond; his chest heaved and his hand trembled but he kept his head held high.

“I agree with Edelgard, Hubert.” Ferdinand spoke when it seemed Hubert wasn’t going to. “You are in no state to fight.” Moving off the wall, Ferdinand noted the look of pure rage burning in Hubert’s eyes and decided that now was a good time to take his leave. “I believe I have a meeting to finish—”

He was cut off by Hubert pushing past him and storming out of the room. 

“Hubert! Where are you going?” Edelgard called out. 

“To the meeting,” Hubert shouted as he strode toward the door. 

Edelgard grabbed him by the wrist. “I forbid it.”

Hubert yanked his arm away but abandoned his retreat. He stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, he and Edelgard holding each other’s gaze as if the first to break would lose everything. 

“Very well. But should anything happen to her, understand I will hold you both personally responsible.” He stood aside to allow Ferdinand and Edelgard to pass, and as they emerged into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them, an enraged howl turned into a keening sob and Ferdinand looked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long updates have been taking me lately, but I promise this isn't abandoned. I have _plans_. And we're finally rounding the corner into something big...


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